


a fortunate unkindness

by Fishwrites



Series: Daemon Verse [1]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemon Touching, Fluff, Foxes, Full Shift Werewolves, Hate Crimes, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Experimentation, No OCs, Non Consensual Daemon Touching, Non-Consensual Touching, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sheriff Stilinski, Protective Stiles, Protectiveness, Revenge, Sheriff Stilinski is a Good Parent, Soul Bond, Spirit Animals, Torture, Touch-Starved, Unrequited Love, souls say things we can't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7298455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishwrites/pseuds/Fishwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where human souls' manifest themselves as animal companions, taking the form which best represents each person. The Magisterium (think secret gov agency) has been conducting experiments on ‘werewolves’ for years - because they seemingly have no souls/daemons at all.</p><p>Stiles finds a lone raven outside the hospital; without a human yet somehow still alive. Thinking it belongs to a witch like his mother, Stiles takes the daemon home and nurses it back to health. (Spoiler: it's not a witch). It kickstarts a chain of events that put Beacon Hills back on the Magisterium’s radar.</p><p>(A coma patient goes missing; and wolves start coming back to Beacon Hills.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> No need to have read HDM to understand daemons. Some basic trivia: all humans have a daemon which is their soul in a corporeal, animal form. Daemons can talk to their owners, and sort of to eachother. They mostly behave like animals but people instinctively tell the two apart. Daemons can touch eachother (affection; fighting etc) but to touch another persons’ daemon as a human is the highest taboo. Daemons and humans can’t be separated without huge mental and physical pain; but certain training can help you master distances – e.g. witches all have bird daemons because they train their children to undergo this separation.
> 
>  _Intercision_ is an process by which you are separated from your daemon permanently. The effect is basically a soul dead human being who withers away. In ‘parallel words’, some people’s daemons live within themselves (in this world, known as ‘weres’). This is a story involves that.

* * *

**_"Whatever satisfies the soul is the truth."_ **

**– Walt Whitman**

**:i:**

 

> _Present day, Beacon Hills._

By now they had a routine on Thursdays evenings.

Both the sheriff and Scott’s mom worked late shifts on Thursdays, and so Stiles and/or Scott would do a round in Stiles’ jeep to deliver dinner after lacrosse practice. Something extra healthy for his dad, to punish him for the weeks’ worth of junk food he no doubt snuck under Stiles’ nose – and something with a side of good coffee for Mrs McCall. That was the way it had been, since time immemorial.

So of course Scott had to go screw it up.

Stiles was  _such_  a good friend.

“You owe me,” said Stiles, from behind the wheel of his jeep.

“One burger isn’t going to  _kill_  him,” said Scott, “Look at all the tomatoes and lettuce we got with it!”

“The ratio isn’t – “

“ _So_  many tomatoes. And a pickle!”

Stiles glanced at the passenger seat.

“Stop poking at my dad’s food that’s unhygienic dude!”

“So healthy,” said Scott, wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah?” said Stiles, peevishly, “Do you know how much artery clogging crap is in that patty by itself? No you don’t. Because we usually go to the one next to the library. Where they have nice veggie burgers. But we can’ detour today because  _you –_ “ he stabbed a finger in Scott’s direction, “- decided to have date night tonight.  _Early._ ”

In the seat behind them, Scott’s daemon, Aimee, – a golden retriever with big brown eyes – made a placating sort of whine. 

“C’mon it was the  _only_  night Allison could make it! And her dad said it can’t be later than seven because it’s a school night and curfew is at – “

There was the sound of scuffling and a canine yelp from the back seat, echoed by Scott in the front.

Stiles’ daemon had clearly given Aimee a piece of her mind, judging by the hissing bark the fox was making and the fuzzy outline of her grey-white tail.

“Hey! Cut it out,” said Scott.

There was a pause, the sound of tail thumping on Stile’s car seat.

“…Shan’t,” said the fox, ears twitching and eyes slanted. She licked her paws with a dainty sort of disdain.

Aimee looked like she was pouting, big puppy dog eyes innocent as can be.

Scott was  _definitely_  pouting.

“It’s got cheese,” said Stiles’ fox, Claudie, clambering so that her paws were by Stiles’ headrest, “ _Cheese_ , stiles.”

“You can pull out the meat patty for Anka,” said Stiles.

“Why can’t I pull out the meat patty for  _me,_ ” said Claudie, nosing at the brown paper bag sitting in Scott’s lap with beady-eyed calculation. Aimee, who much to many years of experience with the fox, promptly dragged her friend back to the rear seats before sharp could rip apart the bag and send food spilling everywhere.

Stiles parked the jeep with a practice turn of the wheel and undid his seatbelt.

“I’ll be two seconds,” he said, grabbing one of the paper bags from Scott.

“I don’t want to be late,” said Scott for the seventh hundredth time that evening.

Stiles didn’t bother answering; simply opening the door and giving him the stink-eye on the way out. Claudie jumped out of the open window and took off ahead of stiles into the station, like a small fluffy bullet. She was too small to set off the automatic glass doors and Stiles had to break into a trot to keep up with her.

 “Hurry  _up_ ,” she said impatiently, “I wanna see Anka!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Stiles, juggling the drinks carrier in one hand and his dad’s dinner in the other. Claudie ran past him as soon as the doors were open, and Stiles followed – pausing only to say hi to people on his way.

By the time he reached his dad’s office, He could hear Claudie’s excited whine above the warm, deep throated purr of Anka. The lioness sounded like a small car engine; her imposing silhouette half hidden by the edge of the wooden desk. She looked up when Stiles entered, big glowing eyes blinking in hello.  

“Hey dad,” said Stiles, dropping into the chair opposite, “Got you dinner. And nice coffee, even though you shouldn’t be having one this late.”

He pushed the food across the table, and his dad looked at the paper bag suspiciously.

“What’s this?” he asked, reaching into the bag for the paper container.

Beside them on the other side of the desk, his father’s daemon had started giving Claudie a thorough tongue bath, licking carefully around her grey ears and her muzzle. One huge paw was slung over the foxes’ back to keep her still as Claudie wriggled and pawed at the lioness, shamelessly enjoying herself. Anka, for all her sharp ferocious teeth and coiled muscle, merely echoed her human’s sigh and looked like a particularly harassed mother.

“Is this a real burger? It smells like a real burger,” said John, brightening up and taking a bite.

“Don’t get used to it,” said Stiles, waggling a finger, “It’s only because I have to drop Scott off early. Didn’t have time to get you the proper stuff.”

“What a shame,” said Anka, in a dead-pan that Stiles suspected only an apex predator could pull off, “Where’s mine?”

“There’s another patty,” said Stiles, reaching for the second paper container.

“No. That’s for me,” said John, “You don’t need to eat Anka.”

“There are three omnivores in this room and I am not one of them,” said the lioness.

“ _Mine,_ ” said Claudie, squirming. Her claws made scratching sounds on the hardwood floor. Anka merely pressed down with her paw more firmly. It was almost the same size as Claudie’s entire head.

“Stiles,” said the lioness.

“ _Stiles,”_ said dad.

“You can’t have two,” said Stiles, confiscating the second cardboard container, opening up and putting it down in front of Anka. Looking pleased, she stretched forward to nuzzle the palm of his hand, giving his wrist a quick but gentle lick.

Stiles shivered involuntarily; feeling a warm comfort bloom like a soft heat from his hand. He saw Claudie go still, ears twitching.

Daemons generally didn’t touch another human. Even within families it wasn’t a common thing – but Anka did it to Stiles sometimes. He could remember her nudging him when he woke from a nightmare; or the steady hum of her purr when he was too little to run around and had skinned his knee trying to do exactly that. Every time she did, the warm lingering presence of her would sit at the edge of his nerves, quiet as a phantom hug.

Claudie chewed on one of Anka’s paws, then reached up to lick her ear in affection.

Anka sniffed at the burger patty, then ate the thing in one huge, impressive snap of her jaws.

“No!” Claudie exclaimed, biting at the paper container and licking around for scraps. She flattened her ears back against her head like she was still a kit, “ _Ankaaaa,_  I wanted some.”

“Go have John’s,” she said with a lazy flick of her tail, “He shouldn’t have a whole thing anyway.”

“Hey, now,” said the sheriff, taking a giant bite hastily as the fox leapt onto his desk, paws skittering across the scattered paperwork, tail fluffing out for balance. “Whose side are you on?”

“Mine, obviously,” said Stiles, smug.

“I deserve this one burger, it’s been a hell of a week,” said his dad, holding the food at arm’s length in an effort to get it away from Claudie who was trying to climb over his shoulders to get at it. “Claudie  _no.”_

Stiles glanced at the clock on his father’s desk.

“Shit,” he said, “Sorry dad, gotta go. Don’t drink too much crappy coffee from the machine ok? That’s what this one is for. Claudie, stop that.”

“Just  _one_  bite,” said the fox, paws on top of the sheriff’s head.

“Okay, kiddo. …I’ll be probably an hour later than usual,” said his dad apologetically, “Sorry if I wake you up when we come back.”

Stiles shrugged.

“It’s okay,” he said, trying to keep any disappointment out of his voice, “Really tired – I’ll sleep like a rock anyway.”

Stiles reached across the desk and grabbed his daemon by the ruff of the neck, much to Claudie’s consternation.

“There’s some stuff in the fridge if you’re hungry by then. Left it in the veggie drawer.”

“Okay,” said John, nodding at him, “Thanks, kiddo.”

“Be good,” said Anka, yawing a huge feline yawn.

“Ugh,  _whatever,_ ” said Claudie, over Stiles’ shoulder as they left the office, “I hate you all.”

 

* * *

 

They dropped off Melissa’s dinner with little fanfare. Claudie hated hospitals, and so sat around Stiles’ neck like a large furry scarf, her ears flat on her head and nose tucked in close at Stiles’ collarbone to muffle the smell of the place.

“I’ll go find mom,” Scott had said, giving the fox an apologetic look. It didn’t even annoy stiles anymore; the way Claudie could be such an open book. Not with Scott anyway; since Aimee was even worse at keeping secrets. He just shrugged, loitering in the reception area for a few moments before giving in to the uncomfortable growl Claudie was making.

He rubbed her between the ears with his thumb; and she nipped at him.

“Sorry,” he said, letting her chew on his thumb with her sharp little teeth. She licked his chin.

“Just smells strong,” she said, shaking her head, “And everything echoes.”

“I know,” he said, rubbing her ears. “Let’s go outside.”

They made their way back through the double doors. It was properly dark now; the last of the sunset having leaked out over the tarmac on their drive over to the hospital. Autumn was bipolar in Beacon Hills, but there was a chill on the wind that made Claudie rub her cheek against his.

“Want my winter coat,” she said, sniffing the air, “Even though it rains so much.”

Stiles snorted.

“You’ll be so fluffy you can’t fit into my hoodie pocket anymore.”

Claudie chewed on the edge of said hoodie, which was already frayed by her teeth. Stiles ran a hand through the thick of her fur at her neck; the grey was already giving out to white. He knew that in the wild, arctic foxes would keep their winter coats for most of the year – but Claudie shed hers for summer much earlier in Beacon Hills. Probably because it was significantly less cold. He pulled at a stray piece of gravel between her paws, the toes of which were darkening with the tell-tale fluff of winter socks.

“God,” said Stiles, wrinkling his nose, “did you step in – “

He stopped abruptly, as his daemon went stock still, head whipping up and ears twitching. She stared at a point over Stiles’ left elbow, face tilted in a way that told Stiles she was listening intently to something he couldn’t hear. Stiles held his breath.

Claudie was tense in his arms, before she suddenly bolted – leaping off his shoulder and dashing around the corner of the building. It came with the usual heart-gut- _tug_ as the distance between them suddenly pulled taut, and Stiles gave an involuntary gasp as he threw himself in the same direction, running after the white-grey blur of Claudie.

“ _Wait!_ ” he shouted, swearing under his breath as he skinned the palm of his hands on the brick of the hospital wall and barely avoiding a parked car. Claudie had streaked off underneath them and left him blindly running behind her.

“Claudie!” he called, hand pressed to his chest. “Claudie?”

There was a whine, and a muffled bark. Stiles slammed his hip into the side of a car by accident as he ran across the weed-strewn parking lot towards the side of the hospital that faced away from the street. It was darker here, but he could see the white-silver of Claudie’s fur, stark against the concrete gravel. She was crouched over something.

Stiles was still gasping for breath, the ache in his chest loosening like cut noose as he neared.

“Why do you _run_ like that, you know how it feels when … “

Then he saw what the fox was holding down and his whole body felt cold.

It was bird; half the size of the fox. A crow or a raven, maybe.

A _daemon_.

Stiles came closer, slowly, carefully, the déjà vu making his hands shake. He crouched down close, putting a hand onto Claudie’s hunched back. She was holding the bird between her jaws like a she would a fox kit, carefully, gently. Her eyes found his, big and amber with worry, ears back flat against her head.

The bird – a raven, going by the shape of its beak and the arrow of its tail – was alive, chest moving rapidly with each breath. But there was something wrong with the left side of its flank; the feathers were thin and crooked, and one of its wings appeared to hang, twitching spasmodically. It looked thin, too.

For a moment, Stiles thought perhaps it was just a normal animal – but the dark glitter of its eyes stared back at him with something more.

“Oh shit,” Stiles breathed, glancing between the raven and the hospital, “What happened? Where’s your person?”

The raven said nothing. Stiles looked up and around them at the deserted parking lot. There was no one nearby. Not that proximity applied normally to Witches, but the raven was by the hospital. Maybe the witch was inside. Maybe the witch was _dying_.

Stiles wanted to squeeze his eyes shut; convinced that any moment the raven’s form would begin flickering, fading in and out until it vanished in a wisp of gold dust.

Claudie was making plaintive whining noises high in the back of her throat, distressed. The raven seemed to struggle a little at the sound, clawed legs catching on Claudie’s chest without force. Its movements were sluggish; as if exhausted or merely half awayke.

“Where’s your human, hey?” asked Stiles again.

The raven stayed quiet.

Swallowing nervously, he pulled his hoodie off despite the cold night air.

“C’mon Claudie,” said Stiles, “Put her here – we gotta get help. She shouldn’t be by herself.”

Claudie blinked her whiskey-brown eyes at him, reluctant. But then slowly lifted the daemon from the ground and laid her in the dip of the hoodie, nudging with her jaws until the bird was settled. Stiles tensed as she let go, unsure whether the raven would fly away – but it only lay there, still staring at him with black, black eyes. Claudie licked a few of the upset feathers back in place, smoothing them down with fretful motions, still making a high whining noise at the back of her throat.

“Okay,” said Stiles to himself, “Okay. It’s going to be okay. See? Not touching. bet you’re warmer like this too, huh?”

He straightened, folding the hoodie and the bird against his chest, making a nest out of the circle of his arm. His hands were still shaking. Claudie rubbed up against his leg, unsettled.

“Sorry I ran so fast,” she said, “But I heard – something smashing. It was bad. And she looks just like – “

“I know,” said Stiles, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I know, I…”

There were bits of glass, small and sharp, in the Raven’s feathers; and up close, he could smell the scent of blood somewhere. Broken window? The witch couldn’t be much better off if their daemon was this hurt and docile. Stiles started walking back around to the front door of the hospital. He was too scared to take his eyes off the daemon, but its form was a steady, reassuring weight in his arms.

“We’ll get you help,” he said to the stranger’s soul, “Melissa will know what to do, or someone in the hospital can find you your human and – _fuck! Stop – shit._ “

Something he said seemed to have flipped a switch.

The raven twisted in his arms with a sharp, abrupt _crawww_ , its good wing snapping out and nearly touching Stiles’ face. He jerked back, arms flailing instinctively to avoid contact and the raven – half tangled in his hoodie – dropped to the ground. Claudie gave a startled yelp and pounced, and in the ensuing chaos, Stiles felt the hot streak of pain across his cheek.

“It _scratched_ me!” said Claudie, indignantly crouched over the raven once more, hissing and batting with one paw, “…stop! Stop moving or I’ll _eat you_.”

 _“CRAWWW,’_ said the raven, pissed off.

“Okay, okay!” said Stiles, “no hospital! No hospital!”

“CA- _KRAW_.”

“Stop growling! Jesus.“

They were all interrupted with the sound of Stiles’ phone. He picked it up, fumbling with cold fingers and the distraction of Claudie nosing at the Raven’s belly and getting another scratch for her trouble.

It was Scott.

“Dude! Where are you? Did you leave without me? I’m going to be late for – “

“Scott,” said Stiles, “I need you go to find your mom and ask her whether there are any witches in the hospital right now, having surgery or something. I found a lone daemon outside.”

“What!” said Scott, the news managing to derail even him from his Allison tunnel vision, “A witch?”

“Yes a witch,” said Stiles impatiently, “Go ask your mom – it won’t go inside and Claudie is with it right now so just go ask quick before my hoodie is _shredded.”_

“Okay, okay,” said Scott, and Stiles could hear the sound of him moving back inside, tinny and echoey through the phone, “Okay I’ll ask. Meet you out front?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, chewing his lip. He wasn’t sure if he could manoeuvre both daemons safely without touching the raven. “Just hurry okay? I think it’s hurt.”

He kept the phone by his ear as he crouched down again. The raven stared at him; its whole body heaving with each breath.

“It’s going to be okay,” said Stiles, feeling like he was going to cry any moment. He had said those words before; very close to here. He wasn’t sure if he had been lying then; and he wasn’t sure if he was lying now. Claudie nudged and licked and pushed the Raven back towards the hoodie, and it went, limping and tense. But it let Stiles pick it up in the bundle, never looking away.

Claudie was washing her face with a paw, shaking her head distractedly.

“Scratched me,” she said again, winding close to Stiles’ ankles.

“Well you did lick her,” said Stiles, reproachfully, “You don’t even know who it is.”

“Looks like mom,” said Claudie, peering up at the bundle of feathers.

“Yeah,” said Stiles, “I – “

Scott came barrelling around the corner, Aimee skidding to a halt after running two circles around Stiles and Claudie.

“There you are!” said Scott, who looked a little out of breath too, “Mom says there’s no witches on the register but she’s put the daemon down just in case and will keep us updated – she told me to tell you to bring her in but I told her the daemon didn’t want to go inside -“

“ _SHHHH!”_ said Claudie, fur poofing up to stand on end, “Don’t say the words!”

The raven _did_ look two seconds from bolting.

Everyone stared at it for a long moment, unsure how to proceed.

“Maybe it’s a distance thing,” said Scott, “…maybe Its person… isn’t inside the hospital?”

“A window broke though,” said Claudie, helpfully, “Heard it.”

“Smells like hospital,” Aimee added.

“Daemons don’t _smell_ ,” said Claudie, “not of other stuff.”

“Witches don’t need to be all that close,” said Stiles to Scott over their souls between them, “I don’t want to move it, just in case, though…”

“They do so,” Aimee was saying, leaning in close to nose at Claudie’s tail and giving an exaggerated sniff, “You definitely smell. Like a dirty puddle.”

“Do _not!_ ” said Claudie, swiping with a paw.

The raven nudged against Stiles’ chest through the fabric of his hoodie. He could feel the sharp point of the beak; the claws against the curve of his thumb. Claudie was pawing at the knee of Stiles’ jeans, ignoring Scott’s daemon in favour of trying to climb up his leg. Even Aimee was panting curiously, ears perked to attention. She kept looking between the raven and the hospital doors and back again.

“What about if you wrap it up and – “ Scott started, jerking a thumb at the reception visible through the glass; but the raven made an almighty screeching caw that drowned out the end of his sentence. Stiles made a snap decision.

“Okay,” he said, shaking his left leg so Claudie fell off, “Everyone to the jeep.”

“Are you taking her home with you?” asked Aimee, trotting beside them.

“Sort of,” said Stiles, fumbling for his car keys whilst trying to keep the raven still in its make-shift nest, “Claudie you watch and let me know if the distance gets too much, okay?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” said Claudie impatiently. She hopped into her customary seat when Scott opened the door for her; Aimee following suit. “C’mon silly bird.”

The raven swivelled its head to give the fox a very flat look, and shuffled its good wing restlessly when Stiles carefully tucked the hoodie nest into the dip of the seat. Claudie stepped over his arm to settle around the bird daemon, curling up her tail carefully so that nothing would fall off the seat during the drive. The raven was still staring at Stiles. It jerked its head in a sharp jabbing motion when Aimee leaned forward to investigate, sniffing interestedly.

“I think it hurt its wing, but it’s not broken,” said Scott, peering from a safe distance, “Maybe we should take it to Deaton.”

“At nine in the evening?” said Stiles, getting into the driver’s seat, “Anyway, it’s not a _pet._ ”

“I know that!” said Scott, “But he could help. I mean they are animals. Like, their bodies and stuff.”

They both looked in the rear-view mirror where Claudie and the raven were having a stare off, barely an inch apart. Big amber eyes and black glassy ones; nose to nose. Stiles felt a surge of proprietary _something_ \- even though he knew it wasn’t his mom, _it wasn’t_ …

He looked away.

Stiles started the car, and took the turn slowly out of the hospital car-park so as not to jostle their passengers in the back.

“Me and Claudie will be fine,” he said, staring straight ahead at the road.

There was a long moment of tense silence. The elephant in the car, as it were. Aimee helpfully broke it by sneezing three times in a row.

“She seems to like you anyway,” said Aimee to Claudie, after her sneezing had ceased.

“Hmm,” said Claudie.

The raven blinked, head swivelling as they left the hospital out of sight, like it was staring through the back seat of the car at someone she had left behind. Stiles drove as slowly as he could, heart thudding nervously as they got further and further away from the hospital.

“You’re okay,” Claudie was saying; a murmur under the purr of her throat. Foxes didn’t really purr; but it was a vocalisation she had picked up with Anka. Stiles could feel the point of contact between her and the Raven’s beak, faint but fever-warm on the side of his cheek.

He drove Scott to Allison’s house on autopilot, and idled on the side of the road. It was in a fancy area of town; the house a new two-storey thing of modern grey slate and glass.

“Mum says she’ll call you if there’s anything,” said Scott, “But the bird seems okay…”

“Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the hospital,” said Stiles distractedly.

“I’d stay but –“ Scott began.

“You’re like, fifteen minutes late already,” said Claudie, tongue out in a sly grin.

“What!” barked Aimee, pawing at the car door, “ _Scott!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Strictly speaking, daemons did not need to eat. They were corporeal and acted like their shapes dictated – for the most part. But they weren’t simply animals; their wellbeing tied to the person to whom they belonged and vice versa. Stiles remembered that about his mother’s raven, the daemon growing quiet and listless as her stays in the hospital grew longer and longer.

He would accompany Stiles to school, most days, stretching the distance between himself and her mother to keep him company. The doctors hadn’t like that at all, citing the distance for her deteriorating condition. Maybe it was because of her lineage, they said – maybe her witching parents had started her in too young.

_“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” Muninn had said, perched on Stiles’ shoulder, “she wants to be with you anyway, so here I am.”_

_“But won’t she miss you?” Claudie would ask._

_“Not as much as she’d miss you,” he’d say, and flutter down to nip her affectionately on the ears._

They sat alone by themselves, back then; the other children too weirded out by the boy with two souls to want to be his friend.

_“I’ll always be here,” he’d said, tucking his soft, feathered head against the hollow of Stiles’ throat, “It’s okay. We love you.”_

And even when Stiles’ mom started to forget who he was, Muninn never did.

 

* * *

 

The raven had not spoken a single word by the time they got home, Stiles carefully lifting the bundled hoodie from between the car seat and Claudie. The raven only stared at him, steady and tired.

“She seems okay,” said Claudie, hopping out of the car after them, “and we’re pretty far from the hospital now.”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, opening the door one handed and switching on the hallway light, “But it might just be a very experienced witch. I don’t know…” he put the raven down on the kitchen table and went to the fridge, “Why won’t you talk to us hmm?” he said over his shoulder, “We need to help you find your person. They’re hurt, aren’t they?”

“Creee,” said raven quietly.

"She's missing lots of feathers," said the fox, "On one side."

"A fight?" asked Stiles, washing his hands in the sink.

His daemon shook her head.

"Fire," she said. 

There was the scrape of a chair as Claudie leapt up onto the table too, sitting down primly next to the new daemon.

She watched Stiles take out half the food left in the fridge. Spare potatoes, mince, a half eaten orange, the broccoli he had intended to use for tomorrow’s bake.

“Are you making her Muninn’s food?” she asked, head cocked and ears up.

“Yeah,” said Stiles, trying to concentrate on the motions of his hands rather than the stinging behind his eyes. He got out the food processor from under the sink and started cutting up the potatoes. When he unwrapped the mince, the raven stirred, head peaking out from above the nest of his hoodie curiously.

Stiles smiled at her, tentative.

“Hey you,” he said, “Hungry? I know this isn’t what you might be used to but...but I’ve – I’ve been told it’s comfort food. For corvids. Smell's good right? You can have some too Claudie.”

He cracked one of the eggs and siphoned the yolk into the mince, mixing it with a fork before putting it into the food processor and starting on the broccoli.

“Just something nice and easy,” Stiles continued, filling the silence the only way he knew how, “But you don’t have to eat if you don’t want to. Sometimes when I’m sick dad spoils Claudie with fish fillets and I feel better. But it might be placebo, you know.”

He scooped the broccoli and sliced potatoes into the food processor too, adding in a small dash of milk before turning it on. The harsh sound of it seemed to startle the raven, it jerked in a flutter of feathers, shaking its head. Claudie yelped too, leaping to her paws - and Stiles hastily turned the machine off.

“Sorry!” he said, “Sorry – “

“ _Craww_ ,” said the raven, tilting its head to one side reproachfully. It was half standing in the bundled hoodie, but made no move to flee. It looked from Stiles to Claudie then back again.

Tentatively, Stiles turned the machine back on for a few more bursts, then scooped the contents out into a plastic container, and the rest into a bigger bowl to put in the fridge. Grabbing a plastic spoon and chopsticks, he took the whole lot upstairs, setting everything on his bedside table and turning on the light in his room. After a moment's thought, he grabbed his desk chair and pulled it over next to his bed, shoving yesterday's jeans off the seat so he could make a makeshift nest for the raven later. He was just about to return downstairs when he heard noises. 

"Stiles! Come quick!"

He took the steps two at a time.

The raven had made its way out of the hoodie, and was standing unsteadily on the smooth dining table; the edge closest to the foot of the stairs. Claudie was watching it carefully.

Stiles stopped, hand on the wall. 

“Hey buddy,” he said, voice low.

“Crr _ree_ ,” said the raven, taking another few shuffling steps towards him. One of its wings was definitely hurt – probably from the way it had crashed through the window. Most of the glass seemed picked clean though; probably by Claudie in the car.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” asked Stiles, “I got some food for you. I think it’ll help. But you gotta sit in my awesome hoodie again so I can – _oh shit-_ “

He flailed backwards as the raven flew towards him in a clumsy flap-flail of its own wings. For a moment, Stiles thought it was going to hit him straight in the face, and he threw up one arm instinctively, turning his head towards his hand to shield himself.

The raven landed on his shoulder, talons digging into the thin fabric.

Stiles was frozen, his own breathing harsh and fast. He could see Claudie out of the corner of his eye, stock still on the table, tense and shocked.

“Craaaaaah,” crooned the raven, shuffling its wings.

Stiles dared not turn his head; the daemon was so close to his cheek he could feel the soft warmth of its feathers. To touch was the highest taboo. And yet. 

Slowly, he felt blindly behind him until he found the banisters. He sat down on the bottom most step, head still tilted away to give the raven some room as it settled on his shoulder. Claudie hopped down from the table, eyes on the raven as she came closer. She tucked herself against Stile’s thigh, head butting up for his hand.

“Okay,” said Stiles, shakily. He tried to count his breaths, willing them to fall in time with the rhythm of Claudie’s heartbeat beneath his fingers. “Okay. It’s going to be okay.”

They sat there for a long time, counting.

 

* * *

 

Claudie in her winter coat: 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoping to write shorter (i.e. not 25K haha) chapters so I can update this frequently and finish within the next 3 weeks. :3 Please visit my fishwrites.tumblr.com if you wanna squee. also would appreciate any feedback re characterisation, pacing, or anything really! First fic I've written in TW. any suggestions are welcome!! you guys know more than me haha. 
> 
> and 3 guesses for who the raven belongs to <3 more info re the daemons, their characteristics etc will come. I didn't want to make this chapter a giant exposition...


	2. Two

**_"Better lose your life than your soul."_ ** **  
– Louisa Alcott**

:i: 

> _Seven years ago._

They all knew the rumours of course.

In a small town like Beacon Hills, rumours ran like rainwater. And the Hales had been at their big house on the preserve for as long as anyone could remember; they kept to themselves, mostly. People talked.

It wasn’t as if everyone had visible daemons.

There was a check-out girl at the local supermarket who had a beautiful jewelled lady bug as her daemon, which you didn’t notice until it was pointed out to you. There were people with small mouse daemons, tucked into their pockets; or beautiful jade green snakes sitting just under their collars. So it wasn’t uncommon to see a lone person, seemingly without. The thing about the Hales though – the rumour went that no one had ever seen some of their daemons. Ever.

 _Souless_ , people would say,  _they’re not like us._

 _They don’t have souls at all,_  they said, _because they’re actual demons. They run wild in the woods._

But people never said any of this too loudl. Because perhaps the Hales were all witches; shaman from the north that came down three generations ago. Perhaps they worked for the Magisterium, and had been intercised – their daemons off spying far away. Perhaps they really had no souls. What then?

Stiles remembered asking his mom about it, back when he was barely the same height as Anka, and Claudie liked to take the form of a lion cub so she could follow his father’s daemon around, biting and tugging at Anka’s tail. Anka endured it all good naturedly, swiping at Stiles’ daemon every now and then in a gentle game of ‘who can growl the loudest’.

“Are the Hales witches like you, mommy?” Stiles had asked once over dinner.

Claudia Stilinski shared a look with her husband.

“No, they’re not,” she said, stroking Muninn’s head as he picked a piece of salmon off her plate. “All witches have birds for daemons, like Muninn, see?”

“Scott says no one ever seen their daemons,” said Stiles, kicking the leg of his seat as he contemplated the carrots on his plate. “Jackson says they’re evil and we shouldn’t talk to Cora even though I think she’s really nice but Claudie hasn’t seen anything either is that strange mom, do you – “

Anka nudged Stiles’ leg, a reminder to take a breath. He took one, and looked at his mom expectantly.

“It’s not nice to spread gossip, Stiles,” said dad, “do your friends really think Cora is evil because they can’t see her daemon anywhere? You know that some people have different shaped daemons, right?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, “But I want Claudie to be big like Anka!”

“ _Ahem_ ,” said Muninn, shifting his glossy black wings.

“Or a bird!” amended Stiles quickly.

If ravens had eyebrows, Muninn would probably have raised his. Claudia only smiled and put a new jacket potato on Stiles’ plate.  

“Some people have daemons like us, on the outside,” she said, “But sometimes they’re on the inside. Like a little flame.”

“Claudia…” said dad, frowning.

His mom waved a hand.

“Some people think Muninn is a bad omen,” said mom, “A sign of unkindness, or bad fortune. Or that all witches are evil. Do you think Muninn is evil?”

“ _No!_ ” said Stiles, getting upset. “I love Muninn!”

Claudie whined, high and begging, hopping down from the table to paw at Claudia’s ankles. Claudia laughed, scooping the lion cub up into her lap with warm, practiced hands. Stiles could feel the pats like someone patting his own hair, soft. Muninn hopped across the table and climbed onto Stiles’ wrist, a warm weight.

Dad rubbed circles on Stiles’ back.

“It’s okay kiddo, we know you do,” he said.

Stiles sniffed.

“Just because someone is different doesn’t mean they’re evil,” said mom, “even if you can’t see their daemon. Everyone’s different. And the world is a lot bigger than what you can see.”

Stiles nodded, wide eyed.

* * *

 

Barely a year later, Kate Argent sets the Hale house on fire in the middle of the night.

And when Stiles’ dad takes her into the station the next day – along with five others – she’s shouting about ‘werewolves’ and ‘demons’ and soulless monsters. Stiles remembers her through the glass doors; remembers the math textbook he had been working on at one of the spare desks in the station because his dad was worried about him staying at home by himself. Remembers Cora crying loud hysterical tears in his dad’s office; remembers her waiting for her big sister to come pick her up.

 _“Beasts,”_  Kate had said to the news cameras, lips red and hands clean,  _“You should all be thanking me on bended knee. They’re not human.”_

She was laughing too, teeth white as flame; her pretty hair smelling like the smoke that lingered long after she had gone.

 

* * *

 The next time Stiles visited his mother’s grave; there were six new headstones between the cold wet grass.

* * *

 

 

 

 

> _Present Day._

In the end, Stiles had gotten barely five hours of sleep.

By the time they eventually made it to his bedroom, the raven had been wary of the food – refusing to touch it until Claudie had take a big lick herself. Afterwards, it had gorged itself on the mix, Stiles helping by feeding portions on the thicker end of a chopstick, the raven perched on the edge of the glass bowl.

Then it had insisted on accompanying them into the bathroom while Stiles’ grabbed a shower and brushed his teeth (Claudie splashing in a sink of warm water that he ran for her); and sleeping next to them on the bed, ensconced in Stiles’ hoodie.

It was now nearly eight-twenty in the morning, and Claudie was a grumpy ball of fur on Stiles’ duvet. Stiles had gotten up an hour earlier than usual so he could hand-feed the raven from the left-over food, before his dad or Anka got up. He had given Claudie a soft-boiled egg (her favourite snack), just so she would stop complaining about why  _she_  didn’t get breakfast in bed too. After the last of the food, the raven nipped at Stiles’ sleeve, looking much brighter eyed than it had last night.

“You feeling better?” asked Stiles, putting aside the spoon and chopstick and going to his desk to stuff his books into the backpack on the floor. He was going to be late. “Man, I fed you both and I haven’t even had anything myself yet. At least you seem a bit more alive today.”

“Craww,” said the raven, making its way across the bed. Claudie watched it with narrowed eyes from above the tuft of her tail, still curled up.

“Still a plucked chicken,” she said, uncharitably.

“ _Craww_ ,” said the raven, head swivelling towards her.

Stiles snorted.

“It’s like you  _want_  to get pecked,” said Stiles, changing into jeans.

Claudie hissed in response, then uncurled herself with a long stretch so she could go sit on Stiles’ pillow. She made the movement several times, standing up then sitting, standing up then sitting, tail swishing behind her.  Then she sat on the momentarily abandoned hoodie nest for good measure.

“I’ll wash it later,” said Stiles, exasperated, “Don’t be such a baby.”

“It’s mine,” she said, chewing on the cloth tag near the hem. Stiles heard the fabric rip slightly. “What’re we gonna do about the birdie while we’re at school, Stiles?”

Stiles checked his phone – which he had forgotten to charge last night,  _awesome_  – and his wallet before stuffing both into his pocket.

“Well,” he said to the raven, “you can stay in my room. Hopefully dad won’t notice. I’ll leave my window open?”

“Chrahhhhh,” said the raven, hopping closer, head cocked. It turned to look at Claudie, then back at Stiles. A pause.

Without warning, it made a hop-flap-dash towards Stiles’ bag, which was still lying open on the floor by the bed.

“Hey!” said Claudie, leaping up, but she was too late – the raven had dived head first into the main pocket of the bag.

Stiles face-palmed.  

The fox was pawing at the bag, tipping it onto its back in the effort to extricate the other daemon. The raven was making louder and louder ‘caws’ – and Stiles quickly closed his door, making frantic hand gestures.

“You’re gonna wake dad!” he hissed, grabbing Claudie by the tail and pulling her away from his back pack. “Shh! Be quiet.  _Sssh!_ ”

“Caw,” came the muffled raven from somewhere behind his chemistry notes.

Claudie hissed with all her teeth, one paw still stuck in the zipper of the bag since she had her claws out. Stiles unhooked them with a sigh and looked into the bag from up top. One bright black eye stared back at him.

“I’m gonna be in class,” he said, already resigned.

“But where am _I_ gonna sit?” whined Claudie, “Stiles!”

“Craw.”

“You’ll have to keep out of sight until second period when I can let you stretch your wings for a bit. Can you do that?”

The raven shuffled its wings, as if settling down for a good nap. Stiles squinted, suspicious.

“ _Stiles,”_  said Claudie, biting him on the ankle vengefully. Stiles swore and tumbled gracelessly backwards onto his butt, knocking over his back completely in the process, much to his daemon’s triumphant yip.

It took them a further ten minutes to get into the car, and by the time they got to school – the raven in the backpack with Stiles’ increasingly grubby hoodie, and Claudie sulking in the passenger seat – they were five minutes late already. (“ _Claudie you haven’t even sat in my bag since third grade.” – “Don’t care, it’s_ my _bag.” – “Cra-_ caw _!”_ )

Stiles breathed in slowly, then out through his mouth. He flicked his phone on silent, carefully slung his bag backwards across his chest so as not to jostle the daemon inside, and headed to class.

* * *

 

In the raven’s defence, it was remarkably quiet and still for the first hour. Stiles kept his backpack unzipped so the daemon wouldn’t get claustrophobic. The top shielded from view by his jacket, which he hung off the left side of his chair. Aimee had given his bag an interested sniff at the start of class, but nothing more had happened.

When Stiles checked on the raven half an hour in (under the pretence of looking for a spare pen), it had his head tucked under one wing, napping.

Claudie had insisted on curling up in Stiles’ lap for that first class, still sulky over not being able to sit in the bag (not that she had ever really wanted to before today). She chewed one of Stiles’ erasers to pieces, then spat them out all over his shoes. He let her pull on the loose threads of his second-favourite hoodie, trying not to grimace as the hole near his thumb got bigger and bigger.

Then, barely ten minutes into second period, Claudie decided she wanted a snack. Stiles was having issues pretending to listen and trying to stop the fox from ferreting around in his bag. He could hear the indignant rustle of feathers and the objecting ‘craw’ every now and then which he had to muffle with coughing, spluttering or outright hacking up a lung.

This was unfortunate because second period happened to be chemistry.

“Mr. Stilinski,” said Harris, “If you can’t control your daemon at this age, I’m afraid both of you will need to leave. She’s disturbing everyone else.”

Stiles pulled Claudie back up to his lap by the scruff of her neck, wishing he had Anka on hand.

“Sorry,” he said, before his daemon could snap out something snide and land them all in detention _again_. 

A few people in the class sniggered. Aimee was eyeing Stiles’ backpack with growing interest.

Harris turned back to the whiteboard (thank god) but Stiles didn’t let go of the fox. He glared at her from above the desk lid.

“What’s wrong with you?” he hissed.

Claudie didn’t answer, but dug her sharp little claws into his jeans instead, turning her nose up and squinting down at the bag.

“Hungry,” she said, licking her nose but not meeting Stiles’ eyes.

“You do know I can tell when you’re lying, right?” whispered Stiles grumpily, “You’re literally me.”

She bit his hand.

“ _Fuck!”_ yelped Stiles.

“Mr. Stilinski! Out!”

* * *

 Stiles stomped across the lacrosse fields, back behind a second of the bleachers which was wobbly and unsteady – and so never frequented by anyone. Claudie trotted along beside him, looking simultaneously guilty and smug. It was a decidedly vulpine expression.

“You’re lucky we didn’t get another detention,” said Stiles, setting the bag down gently in the shade and opening it all the way.

Claudie sat in the sun and started cleaning her face with one paw.

“I hate Harris.”

“Doesn’t mean you had to bite me!” said Stiles.

“…hungry,” said Claudie, side eyeing the bag as the raven poked its head out.

“Don’t give me that,” said Stiles, unzipping the front pocket and pulling out the packet of snack salami he had managed to grab before heading out that morning. Not the healthiest of bird foods, but good enough for now. The raven was perched on the arch of the bag handle, stretching one wing out, then the other. It still held its hurt wing gingerly, and the feathers were indeed rough and thin – but Stiles hoped he’d get better as the witch recovered…where-ever she was.

He tore one of the salami sticks out of its wrapping, breaking  a section off with his nail and holding it out to the raven carefully – making sure it was long enough that the daemon could grab it without touching Stiles.

“Here,” he said, “at last you were well behaved. It’s been a few hours since you had anything – this is yummy.”

The raven cocked its head, eyeing the food. It hopped closer.

Stiles leaned forwards encouragingly.

Then there was a blur of white and grey and Claudie streaked between them, snatching the salami out of Stiles’ hand. The raven was knocked backwards and tumbled off the bag with a ‘ _chrraaw!_ ’ before righting itself and flap-hopping to perch on a near-by metal support, feathers akimbo.

“ _Claudie!”_ Stiles yelled, sucking on his finger where she had scratched him.

She sat, just out of arms reach, mouth snapping as she frantically chewed down the stolen treat.

“What’s gotten into you today!” said Stiles, “You could have hurt her!” he gestured at the raven, then ran a hand through his own hair in exasperation. Belated, he froze, realising too late that his hair was now covered in salami grease.

Stiles sighed.

 “You were fine sharing food before, what’s – _don’t you point your tail at me_!”

“Craaa,” said the Raven, hopping down to eye the remainder of the salami hopefully. “Crawh?”

Keeping one eye on the fox, Stiles peeled back the plastic and held out the food to the bird daemon, who ate it without any hesitation, pecking and peeling strips from the main bar until it had been whittled down to the plastic nub. Claudie still had her back to them, but Stiles could see one amber eye watching through the thick fluff of her fur.

The raven pecked at the packaging, rustling the plastic. Stiles opened another bar and held it still while the daemon pecked small bits off it; helping every now and then to break the meat into smaller chunks. Slowly, Stiles felt himself relax as the feeding went on without an accidental touching incident.

In the distance, the bell rang, signalling the start of lunch. As if in response, Stiles’ own stomach rumbled – prompting a hilarious stare from the bird.

Finally, Claudie shifted.

“Are you gonna give her _all_ of it,” she said, sulkily.

Stiles bit into the salami and made a point of chewing with his mouth open.

“Nope,” he said.

His daemon hissed, showing him her white little teeth.  Stiles sighed, and tossed her the remaining chunk – which she caught deftly in the air. It seemed to be the appropriate olive branch the situation needed, because Claudie slunk back to his side, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

Stiles gave her a quick squeeze, and rubbed his own cheek against the top of her fluffy head, blowing at her ears to make her wriggle.

“Craw!” said the raven, head swivelling like a tiny homing beacon – and they all turned to see a familiar golden retriever loping across the grass towards them; followed by Scott’s slower wheezing silhouette.

“Hey,” said Stiles turning around so his back blocked the raven from sight, “Scott – “

Scott waved a hand at him (his other reaching for his inhaler). On closer inspection he was holding his phone.

“Dude,” he said, after he had finished wheezing, “What’s wrong with your phone?”

Stiles stared.

“My – “ _oh._ “Oh,” he said, fishing said phone out of his pocket. He tapped at the home button – yep, black screen. Stiles gave Scott a guilty shrug.

“I forgot to charge it, sorry.”

“I texted you like, five million times,” said Scott, flopping down onto the grass beside him.

Aimee was sniffing happily at Claudie, both rolling around in the grass. Claudie still had some of her grey coat in, but Stiles could already see the green grass stains in her white fur. She’d complain about it later that evening and then insist on showering with him – which would inevitably result in five hours with the blow dryer.

There was a flap of wings and suddenly the raven was on Stiles’ knee, staring up at Scott with keen black eyes.

Scott froze, inhaler still in one hand.

Then he turned to stare at Stiles.

“You brought it to _school?_ ” he said, loudly.

“Craw.”

“Shh!” said Stiles, waving his arm. “And yes I did because it didn’t want to be left alone!”

“Dude, what if the witch comes looking for it? She’ll like, hex you!”

“Cra- _awhhh_.”

“Hexing is not a thing,” said Claudie from where she had managed to climb onto Aimee’s back. Aimee retaliated by simply flopping onto her side and squashing the fox off her.

“It’s been sleeping in my bag all morning,” Stiles offered, “I think it’s just got separation anxiety or something.”

They both stared at the daemon, who had turned around to watch Aimee and Claudie play, head tilted to one side.

Stiles chewed on his lip.

“I’m worried that she isn’t talking,” he confided, “She… doesn’t act much like a daemon, you know? Except responding to us talking and stuff. Like is that bad news for the witch?”

Scott shrugged pulling out a glad-wrapped sandwich from his bag.

“It’s only been like, twelve hours though,” he said, “…maybe it just needs some time. I’ll text mom again and see if they found anything.”

The smell of food instantly had all three daemon’s attention and Aimee bounded over hopefully, tongue lolling. Claudie wasn’t far behind.

“Don’t give her anything,” said Stiles warningly, pointing at his daemon – who was pulling out the big eyes and fluffy ears routine for Scott – “she just had an entire stick of salami.”

Claudie twitched her ear, glaring at him.

“Only _half_ ,” she said, “Birdy ate the rest. Scott, Stiles has been so mean to me.”

“Uh huh,” said Scott, taking a bite of his lunch. Stiles had to admit he was a bit jealous though – Melissa made the most amazing BLTs. She always got the nice chewy bread from the bakery.

“Crrrraw,” said the raven, also eyeing the bread.

“Yeah I know buddy,” said Stiles.

“Still think you should take it to see Deaton,” said Scott, through a mouthful of bacon and lettuce and –

“ _Egg?!_ ” whined Claudie, tail swishing desperately behind her, nose twitching hopefully. She made begging noises, high whines at the back of her throat, belly low to the grass as she stared up at Scott. Aimee was much more polite, clearly not too fussed about depriving her human of his lunch.

“You are shameless,” said Stiles to the fox, disgusted. “I am embarrassed for you.”

Claudie ignored him and rolled over, showing her white fluffy tummy.

“Oh my god,” said Scott, “ _fine!_ ”

“No, seriously  – ” said Stiles.

* * *

A few days passed like this; the raven hiding in Stiles’ bag until he had no choice but to take to school with them. He would let the raven out during lunch and his study period, taking his laptop and books out to read behind the bleachers even if it meant that he had to squint to see the font on his screen. Once home, he would make dinner for his dad, then feed the raven more of the healthy corvid mix. Then he’d check in with Melissa at the hospital (still no witches) and do his homework before getting ready for bed.

The raven still didn’t speak.

It spent most of the day sleeping in Stiles’ bag, and when it  was awake, the bird kept close to Stiles – often perching on the back of his computer chair when he was working. It was a good thing Stiles had memorised all relevant persons’ timetables at the start of semester. It allowed him to strategically avoid Jackson et al., and any locker slamming that might have squashed the raven in the process.

Stiles felt irrationally protective.

“I don’t think it can fly properly yet,” he confided in Scott later that week, “I’ve been reading up on birds that get grounded y’know? I just – I think it needs more time.”

“It needs a doctor,” Scott insisted. “And Deaton would know about any witches, right? His daemon is this giant owl.  Do you want me to ask him?”

Stiles frowned.

“I mean – the witch is – like they’re clearly not _dying_ if their daemon is okay. She’s moving around the room a lot more now which is good but… I just. I don’t know. Something isn’t right.”

“She smells healthier,” Aimee offered, nosing at the Raven – who had become a lot more tolerant of her over the past couple of days.

“I’m helping out at the clinic next Monday again,” said Scott, “You should come with me after school. If she’s still not talking and stuff.”

Reluctantly, Stiles agreed.

Claudie didn’t bite Stiles again, but her displeasure was always there at the periphery of his emotions, uncomfortable and melancholy. She had refrained from causing any more trouble in class like she did the first day, but flatly refused to play nice when they were at home.

 

 

Stiles finally lost it on Friday, when she peed on his hoodie.

“What the _hell_!” he exclaimed, picking up the hoodie by one sleeve and scowling, “What the actual _hell_ Claudie!”

The fox was standing on his duvet, fur on end, ears back. Fox faces weren’t engineered for scowling, but if they had been, that’s what she would probably have been emoting.

“It’s _mine!_ ” she said, staring at everything except Stiles, “I don’t like how you’re giving my stuff away!”

Stiles went across the hallway and dropped the soiled hoodie into the bathtub. He rooted around for fresh detergent and soap in the cabinet under the sink. He didn’t understand how daemons were partially incorporeal yet still had such strong smelling fox pee. It was a mystery and it was _unfair_.

Claudie followed him into the bathroom, paws quiet on the tiles.

“It didn’t smell like me anymore,” she said, trying to nudge his hip and going for plaintive.

Stiles ignored her, turning on the tap so hard that he accidentally splashed them both with cold water as it sprayed out of the tub. Claudie yelped, hissing and shaking her fur. She retreated, climbing onto the toilet seat behind Stiles.

“This is not okay,” said Stiles, not looking at her. He put detergent onto the hoodie, letting the water run relatively clear before he scrubbed the soap into the front of the fabric, letting it soak for a moment before doing the same on the other side. But he knew he would probably smell of fox pee for a while. There went his favourite hoodie, he thought bitterly, forever consigned to be raven nesting material or Claudie’s pee nest.

Stiles twisted the fabric to squeeze out the water. _Rinse and repeat_ indeed.

It wasn’t unusual for daemons to exhibit their animal traits; but for the most part they were daemons – not animals. Just like the fact that they did not really need to eat or sleep, they didn’t necessarily have to use the bathroom either. Most of their habits were behavioural; They kept a clear patch of dirt and sand in the backyard for Claudie to dig up, and Stiles knew that John would let Anka loose in the preserve sometimes to run and chase deer. They always returned together, exhausted but happy.

Stiles didn’t like the implications of his daemon being so possessive over something so small.

“Don’t you want to help her?” he said, after a long silence of scrubbing and water gurgling down the drain, “You know how people are like with witches sometimes, especially black birds. Or witches are with witches! Grandma was so mean about you not being a bird. Don’t you remember? She said – ”

“It’s NOT MUNINN!” shouted Claudie all of a sudden, standing up and puffing herself out in a way Stiles knew she only did when she felt threatened. He could see all of her teeth, her ears flat against her head with anger.

“Stop trying to replace him.”

Stiles blinked fast. He felt like he had been slapped.

“I’m not _trying to_ – “

But Claudie was on a roll.

“It’s _not_ Muninn, it’s _not_ mom and I hate how she’s using Muninn’s perch, I saw you get it out of the attic, and you shouldn’t be making her Muninn’s food, Muninn likes broccolli! And – She’s not ours, she’s not yours, she’s not family and I hate her! She doesn’t belong here, I don’t want her living with us. I don’t like her sitting on you, and I don’t want her on my things!”

“But –“

“It’s _your fault_ ,” she said, snapping at his fingers when he tried to pet her, “If he hadn’t been with us all the time, she would have gotten better, it’s _your_ fault – “

“ _Claudie!”_ said Stiles, stunned, but she just hissed at him, eyes slitted. He lifted an arm to wipe soap suds off his face – and realised that he was crying. He sniffed, hard, squeezing his eyes shut. There was a static buzzing in his ears; foggy and suffocating. He sat down hard against the bathtub, trying to count his breaths – _one, two, three, four…_

They both turned when something moved in the doorway.

It was the raven, sitting on the door handle.

“Crraaahw,” it said, a low crooning sound.

For a moment, Stiles thought it was going to speak, and he held his breath, waiting. But the daemon didn’t; merely regarded him with big, dark eyes.

“Hey,” said Stiles, voice a bit hoarse, “Wh- “

But the raven hopped down, coasting lopsidedly on its good wing. Stiles realised where it was going a moment too late. He scrambled to his feet, hands still slippery with soap and water.

“Hey, no!” he said,  “I’m sorry – she didn’t mean – _wait!_ ”

The raven paused, very briefly, on the window sill; the window that Stiles left open every night no matter how cold it got, just in case the daemon needed to get out and back to her owner, or wanted to fly or…

And then the raven was gone.

 

* * *

 

For once, Stiles’ dad was home early for dinner – but it was an unusually quiet affair. Claudie didn’t beg for food, or chatter to John. Instead, she sat on the living room couch, just around the corner from sight, curled up in a tight ball. After ten minutes, Anka hopped down from where she had been sitting on one of the dining chairs, and went off to sit with the fox. She gave Stiles a concerned look over her shoulder.

John scooped more of the veggie bake onto his plate. He took an extra helping of the cheese on top, and frowned when Stiles didn’t protest.

“This tastes great,” said dad, spearing another mouthful, “Even though it’s full of veggies.”

“The cheese is low fat,” said Stiles, poking at his own plate. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand. He had been hungry all day, but now had no appetite at all. He put his fork down.

“Did something happen at school?” asked John.

Stiles shrugged.

“No,” he said eventually, when it was clear that his dad was waiting for an actual answer.

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” said his dad, tilting his head towards the living room. They could hear Anka’s low deep purr; the one she made when she was trying to be comforting.

“Just stressed,” said Stiles vaguely, “She got territorial. Peed on my stuff.”

His dad reached out and rubbed Stiles’ shoulder.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, “but you can. You know that, right?”

Stiles thought about the raven on his windowsill. Thought about watching Muninn fade into an exhale of gold dust.

“Yeah dad,” he said.

They finished eating in silence, but when they were loading the dishwasher, John pulled Stiles into a tight hug. Stiles surreptitiously wiped his tears in his dad’s shirt, and hoped no one would say anything.

 

“I’m sleeping with Anka,” said Claudie, when Stiles was brushing his teeth. She didn’t wait for an answer, turning around quietly ad padding away. Stiles looked up just in time to see her nudging his dad’s bedroom door open; and disappearing into the room with a flick of her white bushy tail.

Stiles huffed out a breath, and went to close the door properly so that the morning light wouldn’t wake his dad too early. He paused before going back into his room, hand on the wall. The distance wasn’t enough to make anything hurt; but it left Stiles feeling alone as he got ready for bed by himself. He went to the open window and stared out, squinting into the darkness. He couldn’t hear much in the way of birds, but spotting a black raven against a black sky wasn’t ever going to be a fruitful exercise.

Still, he pulled his chemistry textbook off the desk and used it to prop the window open.

Stiles got into bed, concentrating on the phantom sensation of being hugged; and the soothing repetitive motion of Anka licking Claudie to sleep.

Eventually, he fell asleep too.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are ramping up! There's lots of potential in the soul concept. I think from what we see in canon, Stiles definitely blames himself (and thinks his dad blames him) for his mother's death. Next we see more Hales!
> 
> Please leave a comment if you can! It means so much to me weh. <3


	3. Three

_"You don't have a soul._  
You are a soul. You have a body."  
– C.S. Lewis

* * *

 

> _Present day._

Stiles wakes up in the early hours of the morning to the sensation of a cold nose poking at his cheek, and the barely-there dip of the bed, followed by a much larger dip of the bed. He turned, rubbing his eyes blearily and trying to find his phone to see what the time was.

“… _’Dee_?”

His Daemon nudged at his arm, then burrowed underneath it. Anka stepped over the lump that was Stiles’ legs under the duvet, and settled herself between the window and him, her body a huge warm curve. Claudie was pawing at his chest, ears flicking beneath Stiles’ nose, making him sneeze.

He made a blind patting motion behind him and found Anka’s shoulder. She gave a low, deep purr that vibrated all the way up his back.

“Wha – ” said Stiles, sandwiched.

Claudie licked his chin several times, anxious. It scratched him, like soft sandpaper. He gave her his hand, and she licked that too as if she could fill in the gaps between his fingers. She settled in, close to his heart.

“I’m sorry,” she said, tucking her head in his throat and licking his Adam’s apple, “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

“… _s’_ okay,” said Stiles, still not quite awake, “I’m not angry.” He rubbed her between her ears, and patted Anka absently too. The lioness made a snort-sneeze sound when he accidentally whacked her in the nose.  _Oops_.

“Did you wake dad up?” he asked belatedly.

Anka sniffed.

“I know how to open doors in this house, cub,” she said in her calm deep voice. Stiles loved listening to her. She breathed out a puff of warm air against Stiles’ neck, making him squirm.

“Dad’s probably…” said Stiles, yawning, “…still awake anyway?” He poked Claudie in the hind leg with his thumb, but she didn’t look up – merely twitched her rounded ears. Stiles groaned and pushed his face back into his own pillow.

“Go back to sleep,” said Anka, licking the nape of Stiles’ neck.

But they already were.

 

* * *

 

 

> _A few hours ago._

It was hard, flying one-sided. Not that he knew what it felt like to fly properly – having only possessed wings for seven days. But he could feel the way the air slipped through the thin crooked feathers, forcing him to half glad, half flap madly from point to point. It left him exhausted after bare minutes.

He regretted leaving the fox and her boy.

Perched on a telephone pole to rest, he tried to use his beak to straighten out the feathers on his right wing, to scour them smooth and straight. But he was  _missing_  some, and he shook out both wings in irritation. The night was cold against the exposed parts of his wing; and the feathers missing from his belly. He called, once. Listened hard for a reply.

None came.

He still wasn’t used to being alone; being  _halved_. To be wolf and fur and claws and teeth and then suddenly gone. The world felt and seemed a lot bigger now – but the sky. Oh the sky. Leaping from the telephone pole, he continued his glide-flap-flight journey, slowly, laboriously, towards the human that pulled at the core of him. The distance hadn’t hurt, not really. When he first woke up, he thought it might have hurt terribly – but his human was screaming at him to go, silent and trapped in his own body, screaming and screaming across the bond that sang between them like a piano string pulled taut.

His wings hurt; his lungs hurt. But he kept flying.

He went back to the building that stank of illness and sharp chemicals. The trees all stopped at a certain distance, so he sat on a outer-branch, observing. The windows were filled with yellow and white light, tidy squares with a few blacked out. He could hear the people inside too; their daemons beside them.

He wasn’t beside  _his_  person.  _His._

Someone to touch.

Someone to belong  _to_ and  _with_.

He could remember exactly which window it was; and spread his wings, launching himself off the branch. He made it – just – in an inelegant flurry of wings, his talons scrabbling at the exposed brick of the outer sill. Finally he steadied himself, tucking his wings close to his body.

And there he was; lying in a small bed against the wall. There was a wheelchair beside his bed, another empty chair near the door, and a bedside table with an empty vase on it. The window was shut firm; too heavy for a bird to open – but he tapped at the glass with his beak.

_Tap tap._

_Tap tap tap._

_Tap TAP._

His person didn’t stir; couldn’t move. But he heard. Fingers twitched, very slightly on the blanket by his waist; and the closeness was like a tangible feeling, tight and warm but not  _close enough_. The raven tapped the glass a few more times, hopefully, hopping to his other side to press up against the cool surface.

He could sense the relief, so strong it drowned out the wind. Relief that his daemon was here, still here, still alive, still okay,  _came back for me_. But there was also panic; the same panic that had propelled him through the half open window in the first place, through shards of glass and the fall after. It said  _go, it’s not safe, not yet, go, go, go, go back to the fox and her boy, go NOW._

The raven was torn.

He didn’t want to leave, but his human’s fear was hot and fast, like a heart about to burst. It felt alive.

He  _cawwwed_ , loud into the night:

 _I’ll come back_.

Then he went.

 

* * *

When Stiles woke up properly the next day, there was an empty dent where Anka had been lying, and the smell of pancakes floating up the stairs. Claudie was sprawled out over his left shoulder, it being too hot to curl up in her fur. Judging by the light coming through the gap in the curtains, it was nearly noon.

Stiles rolled over, letting his daemon slide off his shoulder with a grumpy huff before going to the window  and checking. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but he felt his heart drop when his textbook had been undisturbed. The raven hadn’t come back.  He squinted against the brightness of the sun outside. There were sparrows on the tree outside his window, but no tale-tell sign of black.

He wanted to call out, but realised he didn’t even know the daemon’s name.

When Stiles pulled his head back inside, it was to Claudie watching him from his pillows. She stood up and stretched, long from the tips of her toes to the end of her tail. She yawned, snapping her jaws, then looked at Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pawing at the sheets. “Stiles, I’m sorry.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“It’s okay,” he said, sitting down on the bed.

“We’ll go look for birdie,” she said, climbing into his lap immediately, “We’ll go! Right now!”

Stiles thought about grounded birds and rubbed his face with one sleeve.

“Yeah, okay. Did you tell Anka about the raven?”

Claudie  shook her head.

“No…I don’t want to upset dad.”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, “especially if she’s not coming back.”

Claudie whined.

“No,” she said, digging her claws so hard into the sheets that holes appeared, “No!”

They were interrupted by the sound of paws on the stairs. Anka poked her head around the door.

“Brunch,” she said, through a mouthful of bacon. When Claudie still looked upset, she padded over and spat out a bit of bacon onto Stiles’ sheets for her. Stiles made a disgusted noise.

“Anka! Really?”

“Bacon,” she said simply.

“Well,” said Stiles, “I hope  _certain human beings_  are not eating any of this bacon doWNSTAIRS DAD.”

There came a guilty clatter of cutlery. Claudie scoffed up the bacon gratefully, and let herself be picked up and trotted out the door. Pulling on a sweater, Stiles followed, glancing at his open window before he went.

 

After brunch, John went back to nap and recover from his double shift. Stiles, citing the good weather, went outside with Claudie.

“Right,” he said, rubbing his hands together and stuffing his feet into sneakers. “Time to employ those sharp natural vulpine instincts and senses Claudie.”

Claudie cocked her head, “Do you think she flew?”

“I don’t think she landed on the ground,” said Stiles, rounding the corner of the house and crouching down to examine the patch of dirt underneath his window. There didn’t seem to be any stray feathers… but Claudie’s shedding would disappear after a while, so Stiles wasn’t sure how this worked, exactly.

Claudie rubbed herself against his ankles, nosing at the ground and the side of the house intently.

“She’ll come back, right?” the fox asked.

Stiles stared at a passing car on the road. He wondered, morbidly, if they should be looking for road-kill instead.

“Hope so.”

“I’m sorry,” said Claudie again, “I didn’t mean it.”

Stiles sighed.

“Yes you did,” he said, “But it’s okay.”

They walked around the whole back yard and up and down several blocks in all directions. They even ended up walking all the way to the hospital, but couldn’t find the raven anywhere. Stiles thought about asking at reception again, but remembered that Melissa wasn’t working today – and it wasn’t like they would just tell him something confidential like that. He wondered if there would be police records; if anything might have been reported.

Claudie braved the hospital and sniffed around the perimeter; the stairs; the ambulance bay. But even with her keen fox senses, she couldn’t find anything. Curiously, there was no broken glass either – everything seemed to have been cleared up; and all of the windows intact. Stiles couldn’t even remember which exact window it might have been, since it was so dark when the incident happened.

They returned to the house, dejected and worried, a little past three in the afternoon when it started to rain.

 

“You’re all soggy,” said Anka, when they came in the door.

Claudie shook out her fur all over the welcome mat with a chirping whine, and bounded over to snuggle against the lioness – who looked like a very contented rug in front of the television. It had more to do with her love of snuggles than heat though. Her winter coat was mostly in, and though she still had patches of grey and brown, Stiles knew the weather of Beacon Hills was far cry from the sub-zero temperatures of the arctic.

“Hi Stiles,” said dad, looking up from the table where he was pouring over a few opened manila files. “Thought you might have gone to visit Scott.”

“Nah,” said Stiles, “Just a walk. And we already had junk food breakfast, I gotta make sure you eat something healthy for dinner.”

Over in the living room, Anka made a growling-groan that was a peculiar mix of exasperation and big-cat-threat. Still subdued by their fruitless search, Claudie stayed quiet against Anka’s belly, even as Stiles washed his hands and opened the fridge to look at what he could cook with.

“No more tofu,” said dad, the words a bit muffled through the pen he was chewing on.

“Tofu is awesome,” said Stiles, “But we’ve run out.”

“Oh no,” said dad, deadpan. Stiles whacked his arm as he walked past with half a Chinese cabbage.

“What’s that?” asked Stiles, as he got out the vegetable knife. He used it to point at the files, and John raised an eyebrow.

“Confidential police business.”

“Uh huh,” said Stiles, “is it about the alloy trafficking again?”

His dad sighed.

“You know you’re not meant to look through my files,” he said, like a radio presenter reciting a familiar line, “ _Stiles._ I’m serious!”

“Weird that it turned up in Beacon of all places, don’t you think dad?” Stiles continued blithely, “I mean we’re not exactly a hotspot for that stuff. We don’t even have a Magisterium official posted in your station.”

“Thank god for small blessings,” muttered John, flipping a page and rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. “It’s not trafficking, actually. Just a few odd break-ins.”

“Oh,” said Stiles, sprinkling salt over the mixture in his bowl, “That’s a lot less interesting.”

“Mmhm,” said dad.

He couldn’t get to the laptop when his dad was using it right there, thought Stiles a tad grumpily, and he resigned to waiting and concentrating on the food in the meanwhile. In the living room, Anka was picking out bits of dirt and gravel from Claudie’s coat like she was still a baby, big scratchy tongue methodically cleaning her legs.

Stiles looked at the glass container of minced chicken and carrots, leftover in the fridge, and hoped the raven was okay.

* * *

 There were no reported incidents on record at the station. Nothing about the hospital; or what might have caused a giant window to break. Nothing about witches; or daemon attacks. Not even a maintenance report about the broken window.

In fact, everything was curiously, disquietedly, blank.

* * *

 Claudie was nearly inconsolable by the lunchtime the next day – they had made two more fruitless searches, once the previous evening when the rain let up a little and another long search that morning.

“It’s my fault,” she said, crying into gap between the cushion and the couch, making herself flat and small, “she’s lost. She can’t fly yet. The rain has washed all the smells away and I’m useless. Maybe a cat ate her. She’s probably _dead_.”

“Shhh,” said Stiles, grabbing her by the middle and hugging her close and ignoring the scrabbling claws of her fluffy feet, “C’mon it’s – maybe…maybe she went home, okay? Back to her witch. And ravens are big birds, I’m sure a cat would lose in that battle if – ”

“ _Noo,_ ” she wailed, making such a fuss that Anka came padding back into the room, ears twitching. She hopped up onto the couch, took Claudie by the scruff of the neck and lifted her off Stiles, to sit between her own front legs. Claudie was still making high-pitched whining noises.

“You need a shower,” she said to Stiles, “Go.”

Stiles winced.

“I’ll take her upstairs,” he said, reaching for his daemon, “Dad can’t concentrate with all this noi–“

“No,” said Anka firmly, “it’s okay. I’ll stay with her.”

 

When Stiles returned the shower – no longer muddy and wet from searching under cars and climbing trees and looking in the roof guttering – he found Claudie, Anka and his dad in the kitchen, the police files abandoned. The leftover pasta was still in the fridge, the fish defrosting – but John was handling a small pot and turning off the stove. Claudie was sitting at the table with Anka, still looking upset but ears perked up to attention.

Stiles towelled off his hair and sighed.

“Dad… really?”

“What?” said John, putting two eggs onto a towel to wipe them dry. “They’re not for me, you little tyrant.”

He brought the eggs over to the table, shuffling his laptop to the side so he could put them down. Claudie was panting now, tongue out as she strained forwards. Stiles grabbed her by the neck.

“You’ll burn your tongue, dumbass,” he said.

“I want them _now,_ ” said the fox, wiggling. Anka responded by putting a huge paw on her head, flattening her ears and pushing her back down under the edge of the table.

“One’s for me,” she said sternly.

“God, how are you two even real,” said Stiles, moving to the fridge to get out the sauce for the fish fillets.

“Well, you won’t tell me what’s wrong,” said John, raising an eyebrow as he rolled the eggs gently to cool them from the boiling water, “But I know something is wrong. And I know Claudie likes eggs.”

“Claudie _loves_ eggs,” said Claudie, hopping onto the seat next to Jon to rub her cheek against his hand and lick his wrist, “Claudie _loves dad.”_

John chuckled, holding a hand to her ears for a moment before lifting. Stiles shivered, shooting his dad a grateful look. It was a sign of how worried Claudie was about the raven that she didn’t make any more bids for the egg, waiting obediently for them to cool some more and not even making a snatch for Anka’s snack. She licked hers for a while, rolling it between her paws on the wooden table top and letting the egg roll around as Stiles prepared dinner.

“Here,” John said, cushioning the egg with the towel so it stopped moving, “Eat it before it gets yuck, hey?”

Eggs were Claudie’s favourite snack. She usually went berserk for them, never-mind that she didn’t need to _eat_ anything, and would scoff down as many as she could until she was physically sick. Stiles knew that John sometimes bought big organic free-range eggs from Bert at the station, who’s cousin had a stall at the Sunday market every other fortnight. The eggs were so big that Claudie couldn’t fit her whole jaw around it, and Stiles cut up the fish to the sound of her teeth making scratch-scratch sounds across the egg shell.

“Do you want me to eat it for you,” said Anka, watching her struggle with a regal air that could only come from an apex predator.

“MSldk _jfbhhh_ ,” said Claudie, growling and herding her egg closer to John. Eventually she let Stiles’ dad hold the egg still so she punctured the shell with a triumphant yip.

“ _Really_ ,” said Stiles, “Dad – Are you…don’t _peel the egg_ for her!”

“She doesn’t have opposable thumbs,” said John.

“Because foxes don’t need to peel eggs!” said Stiles, a little manically, “They eat them raw in the wild. _Without_ thumbs.”

“She likes them a little bit boiled and warm,” said John, shrugging. Anka rolled her eyes. John set the egg down, now clear of shell, and there was no more talking from Claudie except the happy sounds of eating and licking.

“She’s going to get yolk all over her fur,” said Stiles, half heartedly, “She’ll be all sticky.”

“Not after I’m done with her,” said Anka and licked Claudie up the snout, egg yolk and all. Claudie gave a screech of protest, claws skittering on the wood as she took her egg off the table and onto the safety of John’s papers. Some of the slid off the edge with a flutter and crinkle of paperclips.

“ _Hey –_ not – oh jeez, get off those – _no_ Anka, don’t follow – ”

“Ha!” said Stiles, with a triumphant jab of the spatula, “Karma.”

(And maybe it was just placebo; maybe it was something more substantial – but Stiles felt a little better, a little less panicked, all the way through lunch.)

* * *

 Stiles had assignments to work on but he was far too worried to concentrate – the empty perch in his room made him feel sick every time he caught it in his periphery – so he and Claudie went out again after his dad left for his shift. Stiles packed a bag of snacks and water for him and Claudie; as well as a raincoat and scarf for later. He was _prepared_ for a long search; his phone was fully charged and everything.

Claudie raced out of the door, and with Stiles followed with a jolt.

Half way through their search somewhere near the reserve, Stiles’ phone rang. He made an irritated sound as the call-screen obstructed the custom map he had out, by which they were methodically combing grid by grid. It was Scott.

“Hey,” said Stiles, without beating about the bush, “Kinda busy right now.”

“Oh,” said Scott, “Okay. I was hoping we could go over algebra for Tuesday – “

Stiles made a face. He had finished all the exercises for the month last week in a frenzy to get it over and done with.

“I can send you pics of my working out,” he said, as Claudie studiously nosed at the trash cans, and started looking through the bushes too, “Sorry I’ve just – spending time with dad and stuff.”

“Yeah – yeah okay,” said Scott, sounding confused, “See you first period tomorrow then?”

“Yep,” said Stiles, “Okay, gotta run.” And hung up.

Claudie trotted back to his side. She put her paws on Stiles’ shoes and looked up at him.

“Do you think Melissa will have news? Maybe it did go back to the hospital.”

Stiles checked the time.

“She works today but we’re not meant to annoy her by ringing her personal phone,” he said, chewing his bottom lip hard. “She’s mid-shift.”

Claudie sat down, ears down with distress.

“I can’t smell anything,” she said, “There’s been too much rain.”

Stiles bent down to rub her ears.

“Yeah I… It’s a long shot,” he sighed.

“Do you think dad can help? Or Anka?” said his daemon, “I want to tell Anka.”

“No,” said Stiles, “it’ll – she’ll just get upset. We don’t even – it’s probably a dead end.”

He winced at his poor choice of words when Claudie whined. He pulled out his phone again, and dialled Scott’s mom. It rang a few times, then went to voicemail. Stiles hit the end call button, and then hit the re-dial button. This time Melissa picked up.

“Stiles?” she said, sounding harried – there was the sound of someone shouting the background, and the bang of doors opening. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is Scott okay? What did you do.”

“Nothing! I mean,” said Stiles hurriedly, “Yes – sorry, everyone’s okay. I know you’re on shift but I _really_ need to check something with you.”

The sound of walking and a crackle of static. The sound of Melissa talking to someone else, muffled. Then her voice came back.

“I’m going to need to get going,” she said, “But I have a second – what’s wrong? You sure you’re okay sweetie?”

“Hi!” said Claudie from Stiles’ knee. Stiles bopped her on the nose.

“Yeah – yeah I’m. Look, you know how me and Scott – that missing bird daemon…”

“Missing bird… oh, two weeks ago? No, we didn’t have witches here that day I checked last week Stiles.”

“Has anything new turned up about it?” asked Stiles, a little desperately, “Were there any…stray daemons running around two nights ago?”

There was a pause.

“That’s rather specific,” said Melissa suspiciously, “…Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No, I’m – “ Stiles flailed, “it was just a turn of – turn of phrase!”

“Uh huh. Well. I’ll check with Linda after my shift, I can’t do it now, but I haven’t heard anything.”

“Oh,” said Stiles, crestfallen, “Oh – okay. Okay if you hear anything or if anyone reports – “

“I’ll let you know,” said Melissa, gently, “But witches don’t usually frequent hospitals. You know that Stiles. They generally go private or have their own – “

“Yeah,” said Stiles, rubbing his face, “Yeah I… thanks Melissa.”

“That’s okay sweetie. I need to go now but you’ll let me know if anything is wrong, yes?”

“Yeah,” lied Stiles, throat feeling tight. He sat down on the curb and tried to breathe normally. He could taste the panic at the back of his throat like bile. “I’ll. Okay. Thanks.”

“Bye Stiles,” said Melissa, and the call ended.

Stiles stared at the screen in his hand, at the little marked off squares on their map. Then he stared at Claudie.

“What are we gonna do?” he asked. “ _Fuck._ ”

“I’m sorry,” said Claudie, licking his hand, “I’m – “

“Stop _saying that_! What good is that now? It’s _done_ , okay?” snapped Stiles, his temper fuelled by his panic in a burst that faded in instant regret when Claudie jerked away, ears back and eyes wide.

“No – no, it’s,” he scrubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand to stem any tears. He couldn’t get the image of Muninn out of his head; the way he turned into a wisp of gold dust. He wondered if the raven had done the same, somewhere alone in the night – without her witch or Stiles or _anyone_. He reached blindly for Claudie with his free hand and clutched her close, burying his face in her fur.

“I want to tell Anka,” said Claudie very quietly, nose in Stiles’ armpit, kit-like. “Anka would know what to do.”

Stiles didn’t answer.

They made the rest of the search in silence.

 

* * *

 They went home at sundown, exhausted and empty handed.

Claudie paws were covered in gravel, but she refused to be picked up, padding quietly by Stiles’ side, tail down. When Stiles let them into the house, however, she went stock still, ears perking up and head cocked to the side. Then she went zooming for the stairs, darting under all the furniture.

Stiles dropped the keys in his haste to follow.

“Claudie?” he said, heart hammering, taking the stairs three at a time and almost colliding with the bathroom door which had been left ajar as he threw himself into his room. “ _What …_ ”

He trailed off, heart stuttering.

The raven was back.

It was sitting near the foot of Stiles’ bed, on the unmade covers – looking soggy and bedraggled but _it was alive._ Claudie had scrambled onto the bed and was nosing at the bird daemon circling round and round, chittering. Stiles grabbed for his chair, found it too far away, and sat heavily down against the wall instead – eyes never leaving the daemons. Arctic foxes weren’t much larger than the average house cat; and even with her winter coat mostly in, Claudie wasn’t a lot higher than the raven was, sitting down. She was longer though, and wrapped her tail carefully around the bird, nose twitching.

“You’re back,” Claudie was saying, alternating between English and that chittering chatter that daemons often had between themselves, “You’re okay, _you’re back._ I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, we were so worried… I’m glad you’re okay, you can sleep on my pillow if you want… you came back _,_ you _came back…_ ”

The ravens couldn’t croon, Stiles new, but it made a soft sound low its throat, letting Claudie lick her across the beak in a gesture that was shockingly intimate. It nipped at her ear in return, at the white fluff there and the fur under her chin. Then it turned to look at Stiles.

Stiles shivered at the birds’ gaze, steady and dark.

“Hey,” he said, very quietly.

The raven said nothing, but tilted its head to one side like a gentle question mark.

“God you looked like a drowned rat,” he blurted out. “We need to get you dried off before you – towel. We need a towel,” he said, getting clumsily to his feet and going for the bathroom.

He returned two seconds later with a stack of clean towels and the hair dryer. He had to poke Claudie until she moved so that he could pat the towel over the bird. Stiles did so gingerly, worried about hidden injuries – but the daemon didn’t seem to be hurt, and obligingly stretched out each wing to be blow dried. It was by far the most un-raven like behaviour it had exhibited. Claudie snapped at the waft of hot air and Stiles turned it off.

Claudie busied herself picking specks of dirt from the raven’s feathers with her tongue, anxiety vibrating off to the very tip of her tail. Stiles tried to ignore this.

“Are you hungry?” he asked the daemon, “I’m – did you go find your witch? Are they okay?”

The raven just kept staring at him, head cocked to one side. Stiles sighed.

“Maybe we do need to take you to the vet,” he said, rubbing one eye tiredly. He dumped the damp towel in the laundry basket across the room.

“Why won’t you talk?” Stiles turned to his daemon, “Have you heard anything?”

Claudie shook her head. Stiles wondered if the with was suffering some kind of debilitating injury; perhaps they couldn’t talk either? But wasn’t right, because Stiles knew someone at the local library who was mute, but their daemon would chatter and sometimes speak to total strangers. Perhaps it was something else, after all.

“We _were_ worried, you know,” said Stiles, sitting on his hands to stop himself subconsciously reaching out to the raven. “We didn’t know whether – where you’d gone.”

The raven turned, beak ruffling its own breast feathers for a moment before starting on its wings and tail with long straight motions. It eased out its good wing, lining its primaries in place before starting on the healing one. Stiles noticed that, once dried, there seemed to have been new feathers where there were none a few days ago.

It struggled with a bent feather for a while, wing fanned to catch the light from the window. The raven made a tugging motion, the wayward feather clutched in its beak. Then it shuffled itself in the nest it had made out of Claudie’s tummy and tail – before reaching out and dropping the feather in Stiles’ loose hand.

Stiles’ breath left him in a rush of surprise.

They all stared at the feather, black and glossy. Slightly bent.

“…thank you,” said Stiles, fingers closing around the feather, mind at a loss. He could feel the sharp end of it digging into his thumb, the sweep of the fin, soft. It brought a familiar ache behind his eyes.

The raven ruined the solemnity of the moment by turning towards Claudie, eyeing her summer moult for a moment, before plucking a whole clump of fluffy fur straight from her scruff.

“Ow!” said Claudie, jerking back and batting madly with her paws.

Stiles burst out laughing. It came out on the side of hysterical and the Raven spared him a look that somehow encompassed raised eyebrows without the possession of any eyebrows at all.

“It doesn’t even hurt, you big baby,” he said to Claudie, as the Raven jumped back on the bed, beak still full, darting away to stash it behind Stiles’ pillow. “And fair’s fair.”

“It _did so_ hurt!” said Claudie, batting at the bird with her paws. She only got her tail pulled, and the fox hissed, ears back. It was a playful sound, without malice. The raven tugged on her tail again, dashing away in triumph – which was offset by the squawk it made as it tumbled off the edge of Stiles’ bed. Claudie leapt after it in a blur of white.

“I want another feather. Gimme!”

“ _Caaaaw,_ ” said the raven from under the bed. There was the sound of muffled scuffling, the demise of some cardboard box. Stiles poked his head over the edge. All he could see was the fox’s tail, twitching.

“Don’t be too rough, Claudie,” he said, pulling on the tail with his free hand. She hissed at him, but they both emerged eventually: one with a beak-ful of fur and one with a mouth full feather. They gave him semi-identical looks of faux innocence.

Stiles smiled, feeling like his heart was too big for his ribs. He still clutched the feather in his left hand; too scared to open his fingers. He ran a thumb carefully over the spine of it in small repetitive strokes. The feathers were very soft.

“How about some food?” he asked.

* * *

A few miles away, Peter Hale finds he can move his hand again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed inconsistent pronouns being used re the raven. There's a plot reason for this. :) This chapter got a bit long, so I'm sorry we didn't get to see Derek but he's coming next chapter (and lots of other characters too)!! Hopefully this wasn't too boring...
> 
> If you have any feels (or crit/suggestions) please do leave a comment! I smish all of them! <3
> 
> Quick size comparison of arctic foxes (in full fluff) vs ravens - not much difference! 


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Peter's raven heals, it starts acting less and less like a bird, and more and more like an asshole.

  _"A soul has no secret that behaviour does not reveal.”_  
– Lao Tzu

:i:  

> _Present day._

They took the raven to Deaton first thing Monday morning before school. Scott complained the entire ride to the veterinarian, despite the thermos of famous stiles hot chocolate that Stiles had made him for this very eventuation.

“It’s only half an hour,” said Stiles, as they pulled into the parking lot, “You said he’s here way earlier anyway!”

“… _and_ we have Lacrosse after school today,” continued Scott, as if Stiles hadn’t said anything.

Rolling his eyes, they all got out of the car.

The raven, who had been perching on the headrest of the back seat during the ride, hopped out of the open window. Stiles paused, holding out his right arm. The Raven flew to it deftly, wings missing Stiles’ cheek; neat as you please. Stiles always felt a swoop in his stomach when the raven was so close; the weight of the daemon triggering something deep inside him. Muninn liked to sit on his shoulder, next to his neck and face – but the comforting weight and grip of the talons was the same. It was a strong grip, and he could feel the sharp claws even insulated by cloth.

He turned, only to find Scott staring, wide eyed and mouth open. Aimee was staring too, eyes big.

“What?” said Stiles, “I’m not touching it.”

“You’re – it’s really close,” said Scott. “You haven’t touched it have you?”

Stiles shook his head, closing the door with his foot.

“I’ve got long sleeves, it’s okay,” said Stiles, deciding not to tell Scott about the feather incident. He still had it in his pocket; and it felt private. A secret. Something quiet just for himself.

“You don’t even know who it belongs to,” said Scott, leading them into the clinic. The door had already been unlocked, but the closed sign was still up. A single bell chimed, once. Claudie helpfully kept the door open with her butt so that Stiles could get through with the raven on his arm.

Stiles shrugged; the bird moving up and down with the motion.

“I think we’ve bonded,” he said, going for casual. He made a kissy face at the daemon on his arm. “Haven’t we, Polly? Does Polly want a cracker?”

“ _Caw,”_ said the Raven, utterly unimpressed. It showed its tail-feathers.

They were interrupted someone clearing their throat.

“Scott. Stiles.”

Stiles turned around.

“Hey Deaton,” said Scott to the man behind the counter, “Sorry for bothering you so early. Stiles’ been pretty worried.”

“Is this the daemon that can’t talk?” said Dr Deaton. The raven shuffled mistrustfully. It was staring at Deaton with a glint in its eye.

“I’m hoping ‘won’t’, rather than ‘can’t’,” said Stiles, “We – it’s a bit hurt, I think, see?” he turned so that the vet could see the injured wing, “And it’s only been making normal bird noises.”

“How long has it stayed with you?” said the vet, leaning forwards to examine the wing. The raven glared at him, and deliberately the opposite way Deaton raised an eyebrow.

“Uh,” said Stiles, “over two and a bit weeks. Nearly a month?”

“And you don’t know who the owner is, or where,” said Deaton.

“Yeah,” said Stiles uncomfortably, looking from Scott to Deaton and back again.

“We found it outside the hospital,” said Scott helpfully.

“The hospital,” said Deaton sharply, “And you kept it with you?”

“There were no witches there,” said Stiles defensively, “We checked. And I – I know how to – mom was a – “

The raven shifted on his arm, talons squeezing and then loosening.

Deaton inclined his head, though his expression didn’t quite soften.

“Ah. Of course. She had a raven too, didn’t she?”

On the floor, Claudie made an impatient chitter, circling Stiles’ feet. Then, pointedly, she stood up on her hind legs and scratched the leg of one of the chairs, her face turned to Deaton as she did so. Everyone winced.

“Do you know why it isn’t talking?” asked Stiles.

“Well,” said Deaton after a long pause, “as you both know, most Daemons don’t talk to strangers. Their communication is limited to one another.”

“Aimee talks to Stiles though,” said Scott.

Stiles snorted, “We’re not exactly strangers though, are we Scottie?”

“Oh yeah.”

“It might just be that this daemon isn’t comfortable talking to other humans,” said Deaton.

“It hasn’t talked to me though,” said Claudie, looking up at Stiles. Stiles translated. Deaton frowned. He took a step forwards and opened his mouth – but whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the raven giving an almighty screech, before launching itself off Stiles’ arm and straight at Deaton’s face.

“Shit!” said Stiles, as Scott yelled in surprise. Deaton threw up his arms.

But the raven ignored them – it hadn’t been aiming for the vet after all, but at something behind him. In the ensuing chaos of avian screeching and flapping of wings, Stiles realised that Deaton’s daemon had made an appearance. It was a large horned owl, chestnut brown and forbidding. The raven had evidently taken one look at it and flew into a spitting rage.

The two birds were scratching and pecking at each other – and there was a crash as they knocked a whole row of bottles off a nearby shelf. The owl was bigger than the raven, but not by much. Its advantage was in her strong talons, longer toes and claws, which it was swiping at the raven’s exposed stomach. The raven was doing its best to peck out the owl’s eyes with its curved beak, cawing like a banshee.

“Don’t you hurt my birdie!” Claudie was screeching, leaping up at the counter, which was a bit too high for her to clear, “ _Stop! Stop!_ ” Aimee was barking too, trying to help.

Deaton was trying to separate the two birds without touching the raven, but it seemed to have no such concerns, eyes flashing as the doctor tried to get close. It made a snapping motion at his face too, and the owl took the opportunity to flip them over with a flurry of feathers.

“Jesus – calm down!” said Stiles, “What the…”

“Perhaps you could call him _off_ ,” said Deaton over the ruckus.

Something smashed, and then the owl had the raven pinned to the glass partition that led to the room beyond the reception. Stiles’ raven had somehow managed to twist the strings that controlled the blinds around the owl’s neck, and was pulling it tight with its beak even as the owl’s right talon gripped its dud wing in a tight scrunch.

Deaton choked, hands going around a phantom rope around his own throat.

Stiles leapt forwards. Pulling on the blinds, he managed to get the owl off the raven. He immediately let go, so that the owl could detangle itself. The raven leapt from the sill, sweeping clumsily to the other side of the room to perch on the armrest of a chair.

Claudie stopped trying to climb the reception desk and scurried over to the raven, hopping on to the chair. For a moment, Stiles was worried the raven would peck her too – it was puffed out in a ball of feathery rage, head low, wings out, sharp beak open an very un-avian-like snarl. But it let Claudie sniff up close, only sparing her a quick nudge.

“Holy shit,” Scott was saying, pressed up against the wall, “What was that?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, heart thudding, staring at the vet with renewed suspicion, “Do you know her? …Because it certainly looks like she knows _you_.”

Deaton wore an expression of genuine shock, one hand still around his throat. His daemon was on his wrist now, tucked close and free of the string. But its head was swivelled around, staring unblinkingly at the raven. Deaton shook his head.

“The only raven I knew,” he said, “belonged to your mother.”

“ _Cawwww,_ ” said the raven, and it was a harsh, angry sound. Unwelcomingly.

“It’s okay,” said Claudie, “If she attacks you I’ll eat her. I can eat her.”

“No one is eating anybody,” said Stiles, “We’re – We’re leaving. Scott?”

“I’ll stay and help clean up this mess,” said Scott, glancing guiltily at the shelves and the paper all over the floor. There was smashed glass in the doorway, and something brown seeping across the linoleum.

“Ka- _raawwww_ ,” said the Raven, agitated. The owl hooted in response. Claudie hissed, showing her teeth and fluffing herself up.

“I don’t think it wise for it to stay here,” said Deaton, “We can talk later, Stiles. Scott has my number.”

Stiles rubbed a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he said, “It was worth a try. Okay I’ll. I’ll take her out first. Sorry doc.”

He opened the door for Claudie and the raven, who merely stared at Stiles until he offered his arm out again. It flew onto it with another harsh _caww_ , and stepped up close to Stiles’ elbow. Stiles sighed, shucking his shoes against the asphalt to dislodge any lose glass shards before getting into his car. He could feel Deaton and Scott staring at them all the way out of the parking lot.

 

* * *

 

It seemed after all the drama of the morning and the emotional adventure that had been the weekend, Claudie apparently overcame all and any residual animosity she felt towards the new daemon; now determined to be bosom buddies. She stuck close by Stiles’ bag all through class without a peep of fussing or protest (the raven retreated to nap after the encounter with the owl) and snuck pieces of lunch meat into the bag when Stiles wasn’t able to get away to the bleachers for lunch.

They couldn’t avoid Jackson & Co. for ever though.

Stiles didn’t have class with Scott last period, so he was swapping out his textbook from his locker when he was shoved half into it, the door slamming into the back of his head.

“Sorry Stilinski,” said Jackson, amidst loud sniggering, “Didn’t see you there.”

Stiles was too preoccupied with trying to discreetly check whether the raven was okay to bother with a comeback – but Claudie had no such reservations. In a flash, she darted around Stiles’ ankles and pounced onto Jackson’s frilled-lizard daemon with all the skill of a fox built for pouncing on things that moved very fast.

“ _Fuck!”_ yelled Jackson as she bit the lizard hard on the tail, back paw keeping the head in place to stop it from biting her back. It can’t have been pleasant, given the hard scaley hide on the tail, but the fox was determined. The lizard was hissing and twisting like a mad thing, but Stiles and Jackson had been acquainted since kindergarten. Claudie knew every trick in the book. It was one of the few situations where she had the size advantage.

“Not so smug now are you,” she was hissing, making laughing clicking fox noises as she batted the lizard, “Tiny, tiny crawly, you gon’ bite me?”

Jackson was trying to kick her off with his booted foot. Hastily, Stiles shoved his bag (and the raven) safely into his locker and tried to grab Claudie.

She jumped out of his grasp (he wasn’t trying very hard) and swung the lizard into the lockers with a _clang!_ and there was a small crowd now, laughing and pointing with their phones. Jackson had gone an unappealing shade of red.

Someone whacked Stiles in the shoulder.

“Break it off!”

It was Lydia.

“Oh hey,” said Stiles, trying to de-ruffle, “Uh, he started it.” He pointed at Jackson, who was fuming and still trying to kick the daemons apart. Lydia’s daemon sighed a very loud feline sigh, and stalked forwards. He was about the same size as Claudie – so quite big for a domestic cat – but Claudie looked taller with her winter fluff. She hissed at him, unfriendly, still sitting on the lizard.

Stiles shot Lydia an embarrassed look.

“Sorry,” he said, “it’s not you, it’s – “

The cat ignored the hissing, stepping closer and chomping down on the lizards neck. Canid and Feline stared at each-other for a long moment.

“It’s like you _enjoy_ detention,” said Lydia, examining one of her perfectly painted nails.

“Claudie,” said Stiles, “come on.”

“I won,” she said, glaring at Jackson. “Wormy worm.”

“Yes, yes, okay,” said Stiles, “thanks for defending my honour.”

Sniffing, Claudie stepped off the lizard – but not before giving her a vengeful swipe with a paw. She trotted over to Stiles, ears up, tail bushy, while Lydia’s cat daemon pushed the lizard towards its owner. Stiles spotted Allison on the fringe of the crowd, next to Lydia’s locker. Her stag daemon looked as regal as ever, but was whispering something in her ear. Allison caught Stiles’ eyes and gave him a little thumbs up, stifling a laugh into her daemon’s cheek.

Jackson, no longer threatened, started forwards with fists clenched – but Lydia gave him a very bored look.

“Seriously?” she said, “You’re going to be late for chem.”

“But - !”

“And _we’re_ late for bio,” she said to Stiles. “Also. Some animal has gotten into your bag, Stiles. You might want to get that checked out.”

Then she picked up her daemon and swept away in a swish of skirts and red hair. The cat stared at them from over her shoulder. A moment later, Jackson and his friends left too, shooting Stiles and Claudie meaningful stares of promised vengeance. Claudie stuck her tongue out at them.

“She’s so awesome,” said Stiles, happily.

“ _Ughh_ ,” said Claudie.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was half-heartedly going through his English paper the next evening when he noticed that Claudie wasn’t in the room with him. This wasn’t unusual - she often would wander the house, usually to bother Anka or dad. But neither were home at the moment and she had been gone for a good ten minutes. Stiles put down his highlighter. The raven was napping on one of his pillows.

“Did you see where she went?” asked Stiles.

The blinked at him, and closed its eyes again.

Sighing, Stiles got up to go to the door.

“Claudie?”

“Up here!” came a muffled response. The attic door was open.

“Really?” said Stiles, climbing in after her, “we _just_ had a shower – and you decide to get all dusty _now_?”

“Help me carry this,” said Claudie, “My teeth make holes in the cover.”

She was half in, half out of a cardboard box of Stiles’ old baby things. Stiles shuffled-crawled over, ducking under a low roof beam. He looked in the box. Claudie had her paws on a dusty hard-back baby names book. Polish names. It still had paper bookmarks and dog-ears. Stiles rubbed the dust from his eyes.

“Why do you want this?” he said. He looked around at the strips of ripped duck-tape and back to Claudie. “Did you chew through this box? _Claudie._ ”

“I thought I could carry it,” she said, sneezing. “Come on, I want to read it.”

“Fine,” said Stiles, dusting off the book and following his daemon back to his room. He made a point of shutting and latching the attic door, but his daemon didn’t seem to care, jumping straight onto his bed and circling.

“Put it here, Stiles,” she said, jumping on a spot on his duvet near where the raven was sitting, “Here, Stiles.”

“Okay,” he said, “But don’t read out loud, I’m trying to study.”

“’Kay,” she said. Using a paw, she flipped open the cover and nosed the page until it lay flat. She said something to the raven, chittering, and Stiles tuned absently tuned them out. When he next looked over, an hour later, the Raven was standing on the book, head cocked, beak close to the writing.

He left them like that, and went downstairs to make dinner for his dad.

 

* * *

 

It was a fact that whilst daemons were for most biological purposes separate corporeal beings, they were still _souls_. What happened to the human usually happened to the daemon, and vice versa. And when someone was asleep, usually their daemon was too – witches being the most obvious exception. Stiles knew that his dad, like most policemen and emergency respondents, had to undergo basic separation training. It helped minimise trauma or separation injuries, allowing them to work better in dangerous situations.

It also had the side effect of allowing the daemon to be awake when the human was asleep; at least to some extent. Stiles didn’t know whether this ability, coupled with his mom’s witching heritage, explained Claudie’s erratic insomnia. Perhaps it was the Adderall.

Stiles was asleep, mouth slightly open and face mashed into his pillow. Beside him on the spare pillow, the raven was half awake still, lazily preening his feathers. Stiles had taken to wearing long sleeves to bed under the misguided paranoia that he would accidentally touch the raven whilst asleep.

Claudie wanted a snack. She wanted an egg, or some ham – but both were in the fridge which she couldn’t open because it was too high. She would settle for a pear.

Hopping off the bed, she nudged open Stiles’ bedroom door and went padding down the stairs, skidding a little on the wood. There were a lot of scratches on the corner from both her and Anka, so she didn’t feel too bad about skittering around it, hopping onto one of the kitchen stools so she could reach the fruit bowl next to the sink. Sniffing at the fruit for a few moments, she sunk her teeth into the squishiest pear she could find, gave it a shake to make sure she had it firmly in her mouth.

She hopped off the table – and was about to make her way upstairs when she found the doorway blocked by a big cat. Anka. Claudie whined.

“You had dinner already,” said the lioness, stalking forwards. Claudie eyed the space between her and the stairs, but stopped slinking when Anka swept a big paw around her bottom to scoot her closer. She chomped down harder on the pear, determined to hang on.

Anka rolled her eyes.

“It’s fine,” she said, “I don’t want any.”

Claudie hesitated.

“It’s dripping all over your fur,” said Anka.

Claudie bit down, chomping so she could talk after she swallowed.

“Did I wake you up?” she asked, licking Anka’s mouth with pear juice. Anka snorted, but licked her back, and cleaned up her sticky front paws for good measure. Claudie loved being groomed; it made her feel warm and snuggly, even though she wasn’t a kit anymore. She concentrated on gnawing on her pear, holding it between her paws like a bone, back tucked against Anka’s fluffy chest.

“So,” said Anka, “You going to tell me or am I going to have to keep waiting.”

Claudie froze, mid-gnaw.

She tried to make her eyes big and innocent, but she could hear her own heart thudding faster. She licked her teeth. She licked Anka’s nose. Anka kept staring at her. Claudie’s tail drooped.

“I _wanted_ to tell you,” she said, carefully.

“Did you,” said Anka. It wasn’t a question.

“I just don’t want to upset dad. Don’t tell him?”

“He’s going to notice a daemon living in Stiles’ room sooner or later,” said Anka, “there were feathers in the bathroom you know.”

Claudie side eyed the stairs.

“I cleaned it up before he could see,” said Anka, sighing a big lioness sigh. It was like a small motor starting. “Whose is it?”

“We don’t know yet,” said Claudie, curling up on herself, “We – we’re friends though. Can he stay for a bit?”

There was a very long silence. Anka laid her head down on her right paw, so she was lower than Claudie on eye level. She blinked her great big amber eyes, nudging Claudie with her cheek.

“You know it’s not Muninn, right?” said Anka, quietly.

“…Yeah,” said Claudie from beneath her tail.

“Okay,” said Anka.

It was raining outside; a thousand tiny taps on the window. It blurred the streetlight so it was gauzy, washing out the shadows.

“I won’t say anything,” said Anka, “But Stiles should tell John. Not right now. But soon. Or I’ll have to tell him. You’ll talk to Stiles?”

Claudie stuck her nose between Anka’s neck and her leg, pear quite forgotten.

“Yeah,” she said.

Claudie felt Anka shift, then the hot warm of breath on the scruff of her neck. She let herself be picked up and carried back to Stiles’ room. Anka deposited her on the bed; Stiles still asleep, and he curled towards her instinctively, arms reaching until it caught her around the middle to draw her close. On the pillow behind them, the Raven perked up, eyes very bright in the darkness. Anka stared at the bird for a very long moment. Then she blinked, slowly, and padded out of the room.

Claudie stayed awake, watching the door.

 

* * *

  

> _A few days later._

Stiles liked post-assignment lulls. Post mid-term paper celebrations either involved a lot of late night COD with Scott or long hot showers and Stiles time. He had stashes of popcorn and sour watermelon lollies rationed for these situations.

Claudie was sprawled out on his duvet, face flat against the fabric, eyes slitted lazily. The raven was reading one of Stiles’ history textbooks. It had gotten a very smooth operation going, flipping pages by peeling the edge with its beak and then turning it over with its right foot.

Stiles was chewing on a handful of sweets, listening to his iPod. He didn’t have to get up to make dinner yet; he had another hour to do absolutely _nothing_. He stared at the raven.

“Why won’t you say something, hey?” said Stiles, through a mouthful of sugar, “I know you don’t want to go back and see Deaton – what’s your deal with him anyway? – but I’m getting worried here.”

Claudie yawned, showing off all her little teeth. The raven paused in its page turning, but didn’t offer comment. Stiles sighed, wiggling a piece of lolly at the daemons. Neither paid him much attention.

“Come on,” said Stiles, “Anything. Just to let us know your witch is ok. _Come on_.”

The raven paused again. It cocked its head, a haughty tilt to its beak.

Then it said, in clear enunciated tones:

“Polly wants a cracker.”

Stiles startled so badly he almost fell off the bed. As it was, he knocked over the bag of lollies, scattering sugar everywhere. Claudie gave him a beady look, shaking herself off. She was losing the last of her grey summer patches now, helped no doubt by the Raven who had built up a small nest of fluff behind its pillow.

Stiles pointed at the raven.

“You!” he said, eyes bugging out of his head. “Could you talk all this time?”

The raven merely tilted its little sneaky head the other side. Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, “I definitely heard you. Polly. Or not Polly? …You sound – are you a boy?”

The raven rolled its eyes. Stiles wasn’t sure if birds could do that.

“Caw,” it said.

“Stop trolling me,” said Stiles, setting himself more firmly on the bed. He poked Claudie. “Tell him to stop trolling.”

Claudie bit into one of the escaped watermelon lollies, chewed- and then made a face.

“Stiles these are _disgusting_ ,” she said, trying to get the mooshed up sweet out of her mouth. It got stuck on her paw instead and she swiped at it ineffectually. She tried patting it off onto the duvet and Stiles grabbed her before she could. He was still staring at the raven though.

“You _spoke_ ,” he repeated.

“Yes,” said the Raven, shuffling its wings primply, “So where’s my cracker?”

Stiles spluttered. It all felt a bit surreal.

“I don’t have a cracker.”

“Well then,” said the raven, dipping its beak, “that’s not very nice. Baiting and switching.”

“…I can get you a cracker if you – wait, no,” said Stiles, rubbing his face with both his hands, “…no, stop distracting me. _You can talk_. Does that mean you’re healed now? Are you okay? What’s your name?”

“Polly,” answered Raven, walking towards Stiles on the duvet.

“….Really?” said Stiles, at once dubious but also not wanting to offend.

The raven rolled his eyes again.

“No. My name is Cezar.”

“Cezar,” Stiles echoed. He glanced at the polish baby book, still on the bedside table.

“It means severed,” piped up Claudie, helpfully. “I helped choose.”

“Right, that’s… morbid,” said Stiles, weakly. “You… weren’t named before?”

All daemons had names from birth. Usually the parent’s daemon named the baby’s daemon – and this was the case with witches too. Stiles frowned as a sudden though occurred to him.

“You don’t have amnesia, do you?”

“I don’t think so,” said the Raven, “But if I did, I wouldn’t be a reliable judge of that, would I?”

They stared at each-other.

“I suppose not,” Stiles conceded. “Um.”

The raven was quite close now, beak tilted up to stare at Stiles’ face. Claudie was still relaxed on the bed behind him, not anxious, nor surprised. Definitely not surprised.

“Did you know about this?” said Stiles, a little accusingly to his own daemon, “Claudie?”

Claudie flicked an ear at him.

“…no,” she said.

Stiles sighed.

“Okay,” he said, “Okay. Cezar. I’m glad you’re talking. And I’m glad you’re okay.”

The raven continued to stare at him.

“Thank you for taking me in,” he said. His voice was soft and clipped, each word clear like an orator. “I haven’t been myself.”

“That’s okay,” said Stiles. His hands were frozen, he didn’t know what to do with them. “Is… is your witch. Is she okay?”

Cezar was _still_ staring at him.

“No, not a witch,” he said, “And no, not okay. But he is better.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Yes.”

“…should we take you back to –“

“No,” the raven interrupted, abandoning the distance and hopping to perch on Stiles folded knee. Stiles’ breath was in his throat. Behind them, Claudie stood up, padding closer. “No, it’s not safe. Not safe for us or for you and Claudie. I should stay here.”

“We’ll protect you,” said Claudie fiercely, scenting the Raven’s wing with her cheek, nudging so hard the bird dug its talons into Stiles’ sweatpants, “Stiles, me and Anka and dad. And then can stay with us!”

“Claudie!” said Stiles.

Both daemons turned to look at him.

Claudie dropped her gaze to her paws. “… if you want,” she said.

The raven didn’t reply, but fussed over the fur between her ears. Stiles felt a pleasant heat in his cheeks and behind his ribs. The raven plucked at a loose thread on Stiles’ sleeve.

“Don’t tell your father yet,” he said, “He isn’t safe from the Magisterium, even as an officer of the law. The less he knows, the better. I know you are loyal. Loyal cub. Your heart is very strong.”

“The _magisterium’s_ after you?” said Stiles, feeling a cold stone drop in his stomach, “What – if you’ve – if your witch is under a warrant then not even – “

The raven hissed, a sound it seemed to have picked up from Claudie. it was strange coming from a bird, harsher, with a caw-ing echo.

“Not a warrant,” he said, “We did nothing wrong. They killed my family. And then they _hurt us_ , then cut us apart and now – “ the raven let out a screeching cry, throwing its head back in an odd uncharacteristic movement for birds. Even Claudie flinched, the sound piercing and awful. It went on for a long time, and Stiles realised the daemon was crying.

Slowly, Claudie shuffled herself closer to the bird – a daemon her size – and tried to hold him by the scruff of his neck. The Raven twisted around, but let the fox mouth there in a gesture of comfort. It tucked its beak against her throat, finally quiet.

“I can keep a secret,” said Claudie to Cezar. “You’ll be safe with us.”

“I’m sorry I was not myself,” Cezar said again, a little formal, a little stiff. His dark eyes were bright. “We are still healing.”

Stiles swallowed past a lump in his throat.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I – it’s okay.”

“Why did you help us?” asked Cezar. “You are not pack.”

“Ravens don’t have packs, silly,” said Claudie, nuzzling him, “and you were hurt bad.”

Stiles looked away.

“You reminded me of mom,” said Stiles. It was the most honest thing he had said for a long time. “I didn’t want to leave you outside the hospital like that. I didn’t want someone from the registry take you away. I didn’t – “ he exhaled, forcing himself to breathe. “Something felt wrong, I guess.”

“Loyal cub,” said Cezar, again. He nudged Stiles’ knee with the back of his beak. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

In the coming days, Stiles discovered, despite the snark and sass, Cezar preferred to be quiet most of the time. He’d answer Stiles’ questions easily enough, but insisted that the less he knew for now, the better it was. Stiles didn’t want to push. Cezar would listen to Claudie chitter away in the language that daemons all seemed to share, for hours on end. He didn’t seem even vaguely annoyed or bored; perched at the end of the bed or on the back of a chair, head cocked in attention. He started acting less and less like a normal bird, and more and more like an asshole.

At first, it was just moving things: Stiles would put his keys on the desk, and then find them on his bedside table instead. Then he started hiding things.

“Seriously,” said Stiles, after searching for his phone charger for half an hour and finding it wedged between the oranges in the kitchen, “ _Seriously._ ”

Cezar busied himself preening his tummy feathers. Stiles waved an orange at him.

“Hey! Not cool! My phone is dead now.”

“You needed a break,” said Cezar, “Sitting too long is bad for your spine.”

Then he refused to say anymore, fly-hopping back upstairs for a nap. Stiles grumbled at the gekkering laughter he could hear coming from his own daemon in his room.

 

Honouring Cezar’s secret, Stiles didn’t tell Scott about the new developments. He felt bad about it for all of an hour – but he needn’t have worried. Scott had Allison tunnel vision syndrome and appeared oblivious to anything else.

They were half way through a Marvel marathon. It was meant to be an assignment free, Allison free, stress free evening. The movie was currently on pause as they got into the pizza which had just arrived. _Well,_ thought Stiles grumpily, _I suppose two out of three is all I can hope for._

“…so she said that her dad would take her hunting with him sometimes on the preserve, and it’s really cool ‘cause her daemon is like, hunting legend, right,” he took a bite of his own pizza.

“I thought the point of a preserve was to preserve things,” said Stiles, “what are they doing hunting there. And also, stags got hunt- _ed_ , Scott. They’re herbivores.” He paused, uncertain. “You know that, right?”

Aimee snorted.

“Still symbolic,” she said supportively.

“I want a pineapple,” Claudie demanded, and snapped one straight off the pizza in the box. Scott protested at fox-germs, and ceded half of the Hawaiian pizza (extra pepperoni) to Stiles. Stiles picked off some of the meat slices and held it up for Cezar, who was sitting quietly behind him on the couch. Stiles blew on them to make sure it wasn’t too hot, and Cezar snapped them up happily, tilting his throat to swallow them.

It was a sure sign that Claudie and the raven had bonded as friends when she didn’t so much as meep in protest – though she did steal more pineapples.

“You must be the fattest arctic fox ever,” said Scott, “You eat as much as Stiles does.”

“I’m not fat!” said Claudie, “this is all fluff.”

“High metabolism,” said Stiles through a mouthful of pizza.

“ _Anyway_ ,” said Scott, “I’ve never seen anyone else with a stag daemon before. It just goes to show how special she is.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Whatever,” he said, “Pretty sure I’ve seen heaps of does and stags around but. I’m sure hers’ is the prettiest.”

“There’s no other arctic foxes in Beacon Hills,” said Aimee, nudging Claudie, “You’re special.”

“Mmhrm,” said Claudie, mouth full of sausage topping. There was barbeque sauce all over the white fur on her muzzle and cheeks. And tail. She licked her own nose unapologetically.

The TV started playing suddenly, making them turn – instead of the paused screen, the menu title was playing. Scott let out a whine of dismay.

“Did someone sit on the remote?” he said, “Ughhhh. Aimee?”

Aimee stood up, tail wagging. No remote.

“…Claudie?” said Stiles, suspicion building in his peripheral vision. His daemon stood up, lifting her tail. No remote.

“Caw,” said Cezar, dropping the remote on Stiles’ head with a _whack_ and flapping back upstairs in a cackle of cawing laughter.

There was a small sharp dent on the rewind button; such that might have been made by a bird’s beak.

“I’m going to _bake you into a pie!_ ” shouted Stiles.

* * *

 

Some fun animal facts:

  * Ravens absolutely hate owls and will actually get together and "mob" one to death if they catch an owl in the day time. They do this so that the owl doesn't come back to that territory and prey on them, or their raven beebs, at night. Owls are the biggest predators of Ravens because raven's don't have very good night vision and owls are silent AF.


  * Arctic foxes can increase their body mass by 50% in late autumn in preparation for winter. Below is a pic of how Claudie would look transitioning into summer.... what a derp bebe haha.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep so it's taking a bit longer for Derek & Co to arrive on the seen but it's happening soon! Hopefully no one is too bored x__x do let me know what you think if you have time! <3


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are set in motion; burglaries made; gifts given.

_"A part of kindness is loving people more than they deserve."  
_ – Joseph Joubert

**:i:**

It was like a switch had been thrown.

With his speech came a whole host of other things. Cezar found the world less of a fog of instinct and senses; it was sharper now, lighter, clearer. He could _think_ without the dull roar of fear and pain tugging at his periphery. The feathers in his bad wing grew back over the course of a few nights – and it was not the itching irritation of the healing like before. He would tuck his head beneath his good wing for sleep; and wake up to new primaries and clean downy inner feathers. He would straighten his new feathers, hopeful for the first time in years – and Claudie would help with the hard to reach places on his back. Her pink rasping tongue was like a balm; warm and hypnotic.

It was still strange, being Peter yet not Peter; being wolf yet not wolf.

But Cezar could _fly_.

And how he loved to fly.

It was a shock, after being trapped inside that room for days and days, months and months, year after year – slow minutes shown only in the shifting sunlight on the pale linoleum. He had forgotten what the sky smelled like; the _space_ and the rush of the wind against his face. When he flew, it was almost like he was a wolf again, running under the moon.

He was flying just above the trees now, delighting in the balance of two good wings. He was still a little rusty on landings, and kept close to the treetops just in case – but he thought he was improving exponentially all things considered.

He had paid regular visits to the hospital, to be close and to check – but he had a task to do now.

Cezar landed on a branch to survey his surroundings, carefully tucking his wings in. He was close, he thought. It was very different, seeing things from up here, but he was familiar with the woods from when he had been wolf. Cocking his head, he checked the position of the sun. Plenty of time to fly back to Stiles before the sun set: he didn’t want to chance any owls while his flying skills were still on the mend.

Having oriented himself sufficiently, Cezar pushed himself off the branch with a snap of his wings, flapping hard to right himself before heading deeper into the forest. He flew past the lake he used to take his nieces and nephews swimming in; the wooden raft they had strung together now rotting into the side of the bank. He could smell the mud and water and cold winter grass.

He flew on, carefully, slowly – waiting.

 _And there_. Cezar gave a soft _craw_ of triumph when he felt the edges of the wards push, like fingers, against his feathers – before they gave and let him in. It was not a complicated or particularly strong ward: but it had miraculously survived their injury and long long years while they were trapped and asleep.

He couldn’t be sure if it had held up against intruders, but it was still there.

That was promising.

Cezar flew between a gap in the trees, manoeuvring a little clumsily until a small house came into view. The walls were almost all covered with vines, bare without leaves in the late autumn but it was still standing.

Their safe house. He spotted the runes carved into the trees surrounding the house; not visible to the naked eye but glowing a soft gold in the shade of the trees. They pulsed as he got closer, and he hopped down too grass level, peering up at the house.

It looked very big from this vantage point.

He half hopped, half flapped his way to the window sill and peered hopefully inside. It was completely fogged over with dust. Giving a caw of disgust, Cezar flew onto the doorknob instead, and inspected the locks. Peter hadn’t been a witch by any means; or an emissary. The magic wrought here was basic and weak but it still recognised Cezar. He punched in the numbers, head cocked for the tell-tale click (no one was there to see him do a little hop dance when it fell through). Then he unlocked the second set of combinations, which pulsed when he tapped it with his beak.

But that still left the keyhole.

He didn’t have the key. _They_ had taken it to god knows where; and the spare was in Peter’s safe in New York.

Cezar stared, one-eyed, at the lock.

“Fuck,” he said, to no one in particular.

He tried to fit his beak into the hole, but it was too fat. He scrounged up two pieces of wire, jiggling one with his leg and using the other as the tension wrench. But it was too different to having opposable thumbs, and he kept _dropping_ the piece in his claw until he gave up entirely and let out a screech of frustration.

He threw rocks at the window; but it only bounced off.

He hopped onto the roof, squinting at the house for other weaknesses. There was no chimney. There was a piping system but he was too big to fit. Which left…

Cezar leapt off from the roof, back onto the grass and half stalking, half shuffling, fitted himself under the house. It was dark and dusty and damp. It was full of cobwebs and soggy mulch and he encountered a giant rat which freaked him out with its red eyes for a entire minute (Cezar blanked out in a fit of screeching avian shock, and when he came back to himself, there was a dead rat and he was covered in rat blood and guts. Ugh.)

After half an hour of pecking and scratching, he finally found a rotted floorboard – and pushed his way in until it gave with a sad soggy _crunch_. He flopped ungracefully into the house, shaking debris from his feathers – he would need a long, long grooming session to recover – _but he was in!_

Giving a triumphant _tock tock tock_ crow _,_ Cezar set to work.

He’d have to make quite a few trips to carry everything.

* * *

 

> _Present._

Cezar started disappearing for hours on end.

It was an erratic schedule: he’d often leave during the day when Stiles and Claudie were at school, but he would sometimes disappear in the dead of night and return in the wee hours of the morning. Stiles had wedged his window permanently open for him, locking the gap small enough for the raven to fit through, but not big enough for anyone to break in.

“Don’t worry about me,” he would reassure, “I’ll be back soon.”

And he always was.

“Where do you think he goes?” said Stiles, “the hospital?”

“He’s looking after his person,” said Claudie, not looking up from where she was working out a tangle in her tail. She was all white now, her ears mere rounded tufts poking out of thick winter fur. “He says they’re getting a lot better but we still can’t see them yet. It’s not safe.”

Stiles chewed on the end of his pen in frustration.

“Can’t you pester him some more?” he said, “I’m starting to think we’re harbouring a murderer or something.”

Claudie narrowed her eyes at him.

“No you don’t,” she said. “Anyway who cares if Cezar has killed people. I like him.”

“Um, _dad_ will care,” said Stiles.

“We have to tell soon,” said Claudie, dropping her tail at last and getting to her paws for a long, languorous stretch. She hopped down from Stiles’ bed and padded over to his desk, nosing at his backpack. “Can we tell dad? I don’t like secrets.”

“Tell him _what_?” said Stiles distractedly, “That we’re harbouring a killer raven? That will go over _real_ well.”

“He’s gonna find out. We’re all be in trouble,” said Claudie. She gave Stiles a side-eye, then dragged a crumpled piece of foil wrapper out of Stiles’ hoodie pocket. She licked it a few times for leftover cheese stains. Stiles nudged her with his bare foot. She kept licking. He prodded a bit harder, and she snapped at him, grumpy.

“Oi,” he said, “in the bin.”

“…shan’t,” said his daemon, crinkling the foil obnoxiously in retaliation.

Stiles stared unseeingly at his laptop.

“You know he’ll get angry.”

There was a pause in the licking.

“…we don’t know that,” said Claudie, shifting.

“He’ll say we should have reported it straight away. Had a search going.”

“Cezar doesn’t _want_ a search going!”

“Yes, but what if his witch is in danger?” said Stiles, chewing on the end of his pen.

Claudie fixed him with an amber stare.

“They _are_ in danger. That’s why he doesn’t want a search going.”

Stiles spun in his chair, uneasy. He put both his feet on Claudie’s backside and pushed down with the heel of his foot, alternating from left to right, left to right. His daemon put up with it and ripped the foil into little pieces, and then spitting them out vengefully all over the carpet.

Stiles wasn’t sure what the Magisterium would have to do with a small sleepy town like Beacon Hills. They didn’t even have their own coven of witches; just nomads that wandered through and one or two that stayed – like Dr. Deaton and Stiles’ mom. And now, apparently, Cezar’s witch.

“I don’t want dad to get into trouble,” said Stiles, finally, “But I don’t know what to do, Dee.”

Claudie blinked at him from the floor. Then she abandoned her foil and rubbed her cheek against his calves, before jumping up into his lap. Stiles pulled her into a grateful hug, burying his face in her thick fur. Her winter coat had fully come in; his hands disappearing into it as her tail spilled off his knees. Claudie licked the shell of his ear a few times, paws two points of pressure against his clavicle.

“I miss mom,” she said into his neck.

Stiles breathed her in, eyes closed.

 

* * *

 

“But you’ve already had three late shifts this week,” said Stiles.

He was running late for school and Scott would be annoyed – but he hadn’t slept well and was feeling decidedly zombie like. Scott would just have to wait an extra period for his geography notes.

Cezar hadn’t been home for two nights in a row, and Claudie was antsy. An antsy Claudie meant insomnia.

John shrugged, taking a long drink from his coffee.

“There’s been a lot of strange things going on,” he said, “And we’re a bit short on staff right now since Martha and Greg are on both on leave. Need to do the patrols.”

“Why extra patrols?” pressed Stiles, “Can’t you just… I dunno, install more cameras or something?”

Beside them on the floor, Anka was spread out in a grumpy lump. She definitely missed her sleep; and showed it by yawning widely and frequently – displaying all over her teeth. Claudie sprawled on top of her like a white fluffy scarf, methodically licking her ears and her face. Anka snorted into her front paws. The motion made Claudie’s tail slip.

“Yeah cameras,” said John, “See that’s the funny thing. Someone’s been vandalising them.”

“What’s new?” said Stiles dubiously. He stole an extra piece of toast.

“Aren’t you meant to be at school?” said dad suspiciously.

“Aren’t you meant to be switching to orange juice in the morning?” said Stiles.

“ _Ha!_ ” said Anka from the floor. If lions high-fived, no doubt she and Claudie would have exchanged one. Stiles gave her a mock solute with two fingers.

John sighed.

“It’s not normal vandalism. These cameras aren’t exactly accessible from the ground.”

“Huh,” said Stiles.

“And it’s random. All over the place.”

“They getting smashed or something? Pea shooter?”

“No,” said John, “ _Painted_. Fogged up. Takes a few days to figure out which ones have been damaged, and then have to clean it off. Anyway we’re trying to figure out which bugger is climbing all the way up to mess with them. Not sure how we _haven’t_ caught them on one of the cameras already.”

Stiles tapped finger against the table-top.

“What about a daemon?” he said, musing out loud, “Something that could climb telephone poles and traffic lights easily you know? Like a monkey. Or a gecko. Or something that could _fly,_ because then … then…”

A weight of suspicion formed in Stiles’ stomach. He stared at Claudie, who was determinedly _not_ looking at him.

Stiles swiped his school bag from the opposite chair.

“Oh look at the time,” he exclaimed with mock horror, “Education awaits! _Claudie._ ”

“…Halp,” said Claudie, but Anka only laughed at her, tongue lolling. Then she shook the fox off her back with a rolling stretch and nudged the both towards the door.

 

* * *

 

Lacrosse practice was always a noisy affair. As a rule, teenagers didn’t have good separation resistance, so while all the daemons were cordoned off behind the standard fence at the sidelines – whether they _stayed_ there was an entirely different matter.

“ _Greenburg!”_ Coach shouted, “For gods sake, get your daemon under control, or you’re benched for the rest of the season!”

In the background, a grey-white spotted donkey had raced onto the field, bowling Jackson over in her enthusiasm. She had easily cleared the low fencing.

Stiles paused, panting for breath as they all watched Greenburg corral his daemon back off the field; the Coach blowing his whistle repeatedly, shrill and high. Behind stubby wire fence, Stiles could see Claudie and Aimee gossiping together, heads bent close and tail wagging in the short grass. Claudie’s front legs were covered in brown dirt and mud.

“This happens every practice,” said Scott, jogging over. Coach was telling Greenberg to tie his daemon to the tree _or else_ , whilst the man’s own daemon – a truly ginormous rabbit – watched from the bench. Stiles had never figured out what _breed_ of rabbit she was, because she was about twice as huge as Claudie in her winter fur (Claudie found this out the hard way one practice when she attempted to sneak onto the field and found herself flattened under fifteen kilograms of triumphant rabbit and then pummelled by her thumper for a good few minutes.).

“Every time,” agreed Stiles.

Scott shook his half empty drink bottle at him, and Stiles took it gratefully for a few long swallows. Brothers shared everything. Especially spit. Eh.

“Bit mean though,” said Scott, “To tie her to a tree. She’ll try to run anyway.”

“It’s a teensy weensy field,” said Stiles, rolling his eyes, “You don’t see Claudie sprinting after me every time I run the other way, do you?”

Scott gave both their daemons the side eye.

“No,” he conceded, “But that’s probably because she spent the last fifteen minutes burying something behind the bleachers.”

Stiles whirled around.

“ _What._ ”

 

 

It turned out to be Jackson’s new iPhone. Stiles wasn’t sure _how_ his daemon had managed to steal it out of Jackson’s bag since he was pretty sure she didn’t have the skills or appendages to operate buckles. Still, it was pretty hilarious watching Jackson search for it like a headless chook.

“How did you even get it past his daemon?” asked Scott on their way back to the showers.

Claudie stuck her nose up in the air, tail aloft with glee.

“Skills,” she said. “And cunning. It runs in my blood, like it ran in the blood of my vulpine ancestors – “

“I distracted her,” said Aimee, tongue out. She danced sideways when Claudie swiped at her playfully.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Claudie, “But _I_ did the digging. And the burying. But I guess we can call it a team effort.”

“Too right,” said Aimee.

Stiles grabbed a clean towel from his locker, making a triumphant noise when he also found his spare clean tee and shorts.

“Maybe like, 20%,” said Claudie.

“Does that mean when Jackson finds out, I’m going to get 80% of the consequences?” said Stiles blithely, tossing his dirty shirt into a plastic bag and toeing off his shoes. “Come on, you’re getting a wash too – gotta get rid of all that evidence on your legs.”

Claudie trotted happily after him to an empty shower cubicle. She didn’t mind water and baths – in fact she loved getting wet in the shower. It was just such a herculean effort to dry her off afterwards.

“Just your legs,” said Stiles, trying to keep her from jumping into the spray. She snapped at him with sharp shiny teeth, tail wagging, “ _Claudie_ you’re gonna get the car all wet if you get soaked!”

“Blow dry!” said Claudie, trying to dance around his legs. Stiles was going to slip and brain himself on the tiles one of these days. “ _Blow dry!_ ”

“We don’t have time to blow dry you,” said Stiles, adjusting the temperature so it somewhere between ‘ _the fires of hell_ ’ and ‘ _arctic blizzard_ ’, “We gotta go drop of dinner for dad remember?”

Claudie paused, panting into the water spray. Her ears twitched.

“Fine,” she said silkily, sticking out one muddy paw. Stiles bent down to wash her – and she side stepped him into the water anyway.

“Ugh,” said Stiles, watching his daemon shrink by 50% as the water padded down her fluffy coat, “I hate you.”

“No, don’t use that shampoo,” she said bossily, “It makes me smell weird!”

There was a rustling sound and then the wet pad of feet. Aimee’s face appeared below the shower partition, slightly squashed. She had Scott’s shampoo bottle in her mouth. Claudie yipped in approval.

“Are you serious,” said Stiles.

 

* * *

 

The raven returned that evening just after dinner, when the sky was just shy of slipping into darkness. Claudie was sprawled out on Stiles’ bed, playing with a rubix cube when she suddenly perked up, face turned towards the window. A few moments later, there was the familiar flap flap of wings and the skitter of claws on wood before Cezar poked his head through the gap and wriggled in.

“You’re back!” exclaimed Claudie.

“Oh good,” said Stiles, trying to quash the flood of relief, “Now I can close the window. It’s mean to rain.”

Cezar didn’t reply – but that was because he was holding something in his beak. He hopped-glided to land on Stiles’ chairback in his usual disregard for personal space. Stiles had to twist around so that his back was against the edge of his desk.

“Oh hey – what’s that you’ve got?”

Cezar made jabbing motions with his head, offering the object. Stiles reached out a hand slowly, and Cezar dropped it into his open palm. Claudie was pawing at his jeans, trying to get a good look.

“What’s that? Lemme see, Stiles. _Stiles._ ”

It was a pendant the size of a thick large coin, attached to what felt like waxy plaited leather. The disk itself was lighter than it looked; made out of wood instead of metal. It had a complicated looking squiggle on one side, and a deep, triskele design on the other.

Claudie wriggled her way into his lap, stretched on her tip toes and nosing at the necklace in his hand. She sniffed it a few times, before her pink tongue darted out and she gave it a quick lick.

“ _Claudie,”_ said Stiles, snatching the thing away.

“I’m _just_ checking,” she said, sitting back down.

“You’re mean to wear it around your neck,” said Cezar.

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Gee, really?” he said, but obligingly untangled the string and looped it over his own head. It was a good length, and the pendant settled somewhere close to his heart. He examined it more closely, rubbing his thumb over the engraving. Then he looked at the raven with shrewd eyes.

“What is it? You didn’t steal this from someone did you?”

Cezar fluffed up a little, indignant.

“No,” he said, “It’s a present. We made it.”

Stiles stared.

“We as in you and – “

“Yes,” said Cezar. He bent forwards to eye the necklace, then flipped it to the right side so it was settled against Stiles shirt, triskele down. Stiles felt hot all over, even though they hadn’t touched. It was a close call.

“Don’t take it off,” said Cezar seriously, “It’ll protect you.”

“Right,” said Stiles, looking down at the small wooden thing on his chest. It occurred to him that although his mom didn’t dabble in much magic, Cezar’s witch probably _did._

“Not to be rude or anything,” he said, voice a little strained, “But what does it do, exactly? I’m not – is it magic?”

Cezar hopped down to the chair’s armrest and shuffled closer. He was really a big raven. His head came up past Stiles’ shoulder.

“It’s nothing bad,” he said, “It’s just some protection.”

“…from what?” asked Stiles.

“People who might look for you,” said Cezar cryptically. Stiles swallowed, remembering that Cezar was a runaway from the Magisterium (or something) and he was hiding in the sheriff’s house. The pendant suddenly felt a lot heavier than it did a moment ago.

“That’s – that’s … really thoughtful?” said Stiles, “Thanks it’s…thanks.”

“It’s just a good luck charm,” said Cezar, stretching out one wing after the other. Stiles noticed that his feathers were glossy and healthy now, nearly no thin patches to be seen. He was also a bit plumper than before; less like he would blow over in a gust of wind, breast feathers reflecting a blue-purple sheen from his desk lamp. The result of some first-grade Stilinksi TLC, thought Stiles proudly.

Claudie huffed from his other side.

“Where’s _my_ necklace?” she asked, nosing at Cezar’s tummy feathers.

He gave her an affectionate nip on the ear.

“You don’t need one,” he said, “It doesn’t work for daemons.”

“Oh,” she said.

Claudie rubbed her cheek against the necklace, eyed it, and then rubbed her other cheek against it too. And despite the vague threat of the Magisterium hanging over them, despite the risk of associating too closely with witches – Stiles felt touched. He tucked the necklace under his shirt, where the wood rested against his skin. And though it had been out in cool night air, the wood was warm to the touch.

“I like it,” said Claudie, pushing at the lump that was the necklace with her nose.

“Uh huh,” said Stiles, scratching her behind the ears. Then she seemed to remember something, hopping off Stiles lap and bounding over to his abandoned school bag by the door.

“I have a present for you too, Cezar!” she said, sticking her head into the opening. Stiles winced at the sound of muffled paper being scrunched, before she emerged with something in her mouth. Something shiny. It dangled like a key-ring.

Stiles squinted.

It _was_ a key ring. With keys.

Cezar hopped down to the floor to examine his present, rattling the ring of keys with obvious delight. They jangled noisily. There was a car key too, with a very obvious logo.

“Claudie….” said Stiles.

“Pretty,” said Cezar, tossing the heavy keys up and then catching them on the way down.

“I know!” said the fox, preening.

“ _You stole his car keys?!”_ Stiles flailed.

“Let’s bury it somewhere,” said Cezar, “but separately. So it takes longer to find.”

“ _Yes,_ ” said Claudie, tail wagging furiously.

“No,” said Stiles, throwing out his arms, “Do you _actually_ want Jackson to kill me?”

“He won’t kill you,” said Cezar reassuringly. He picked up the keys with one foot and flew to the bed. He began to methodically slide one of keys around the circle of the keychain, holding the rest still with his claw while pulling with his beak. He looked like the ravens Stiles once saw in a BBC documentary; the kind that had David Attenborough saying in a hushed voice-over: _‘…in fact, these birds are so intelligent that they can bypass most home security systems, and have been known to engage in illegal money laundering. Truly remarkable.”_

“I’d peck out his eyes first.”

 

* * *

 

They knew about Dust now.

They had come a long way from the height of Geneva, the height of the Magsterium days where dust was seen as the product of human evil; and to be free of it was to be pure. But it wasn’t ‘dust’, these days. _Anti-matter_. They had stopped intercising children for the sake of salvation, because scientific progress brought civilised men – or something.

Intercision was only practiced in the psychiatric ward now, and sometimes for alternative medical procedures. It still produced blank-eyed people and blank-eyed souls; reminiscent of the pre-emancipation decades where slaves were intercised to keep them docile, keep them quiet.

Peter wondered if getting severed from your daemon felt similar to having yourself split in two. On the bad days, he thought intercision might have been a mercy after all – that way maybe he wouldn’t have to feel the absence and distance inside his own chest cavity.

He took a deep breath, held it for as long as he could, then let it out again.

No, intercision would have been worse. He would have wasted away within a few short months, rendered to a shell of his former self. And Peter Hale was intimately familiar with shells – burnt out, thin and brittle – threatening to crumble at the slightest pressure. He had been one of those for six long years, locked in the agonising slow trickle of time. When they cut him open, he had felt relief even amongst the pain. It was the end, he thought. Finally. _Finally_.

But it wasn’t the end. And after they tore – his wolf no longer a wolf; it burned almost as fiercely as the fire had done. He had lost many days, after that. But when he woke again, he felt more alive than he had done for years. He could feel what his daemon could feel, almost hear what he could hear – it was like someone had taken his shift and magnified it in a rush of distance and colour and senses.

He would fall asleep to the phantom warmth of someone around him; and sometimes he thought he could feel someone patting his hair, smoothing it down in hypnotic repetitive strokes.

Peter wanted to leave this dull, awful room. Wanted to find the source of that comfort and hold tight. _Patience_ , his daemon said from the window, _patience._

And so they had waited, slowly devising a plan and readying all the parts. Though Peter could move now, he couldn’t risk alerting anyone to his healed state until he was ready to run. And so it was his daemon who made most of the preparations, scoping out the surveillance cameras and readying the hex bags.

 _Need opposable thumbs,_ he’d say pecking at Peter’s window, _why couldn’t you have been a monkey of some kind?_

 _‘I thought I was wolf,’_ Peter would say, risking the absence of any nurses to turn his head towards the sun, ‘ _I never thought I could fly.’_

His daemon preened his feathers.

 _Wolf._ _We haven’t been wolf for a long time now._

 

 

And so his daemon had visited, in between their planning. His daemon had named himself _Cezar_ of all things, and when Peter snorted at the choice, he had gotten a faceful of tail feathers and a peck on the hand.

 _Claudie_ _chose it with me,_ he had said, _it’s mine_.  _It's ours._

And he had said it with such a fierce possession, gratitude and fondness that Peter felt it warm his face. He had conceded, with little argument, after that.

One night, when Cezar was stuck with him in the hospital due to the heavy rain outside, Peter had stroked his daemon with stiff but wondrous hands. The raven was so warm, feathers glossy and soft under his skin. Cezar was perched on his wrist, a reassuring and heavy weight as he groomed Peter’s hair. For the first time in a long time, Peter didn’t feel so alone. And perhaps it was this moment of weakness that made him brave:

_“Do you know if – have you heard from Laura? Derek?”_

_His daemon paused, shifting back on his arm to look Peter in the eye._

_“They’re alive,” he said, “I looked up the hospital records. They’ve called, before.”_

_Peter closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as if that motion could mitigate the giant fist threatening to compress his heart._

_“Oh,” he said, “I thought they might have been caught. Or killed.”_

_Cezar didn’t blink, only regarded Peter with his dark, dark eyes._

_“I think they’ve been too scared to come back,” he said, “But they still use their old names. Foolish cubs.”_

_Peter could only nod, eyes still closed. He brought his daemon closer, awkwardly holding him against his reclined chest. Cezar let him, not even protesting when a hand was clutched tight in his feathers. He rubbed his beak against the soft hollow of Peter’s throat._

_“So they – they don’t know,” said Peter. It was a statement, not a question._

_Cezar was quiet for a long time._

_The rain hammered the window._

_“I think they were just scared, Peter,” said the Raven._

_Neither of them said it, but both knew that Peter had been scared too. Trapped in his own body and then under the microscopic interest of the Magisterium. He had been scared and hurting; reliving the deaths of his pack until the only thing that moved was his own shadow. And even that would waver where it was tethered to Peter’s ankles. As if it too, could not bear his company._

_Peter had been scared too._

_But unlike Laura and Derek, he hadn’t been able to run away._

 

 

In the end, it was frighteningly easy to escape.

The long-term wards were never frequently patrolled; especially in a small county hospital. They made daily check ups and helped Peter eat and wash, but that was it. It hadn’t taken long for Cezar and Peter to work out everyone’s nightly rosters; including who were lazy and who would be early.

Peter’s nurse had only been so vigilant during the experimentation and surgeries. Once that was over, she had no excuse to stand guard anymore, and had to deal with normal rosters like everyone else. In fact, if it wasn’t for the Magisterium, Peter could have just walked out the front door in the middle of the day. There was no legal grounds to detain him; there would only be medical uproar.

But no, he had to do so quietly; get away to safety before she realised he was gone.

His daemon had taken care of the relevant surveillance cameras, both in the foyer and just outside the hospital; smeared them with ink so that by the time they were cleaned, Peter would be long gone. He sat up in his bed carefully, using both hands to lever his body upright. Moving was still strange and stiff – overcoming one’s already strange healing plateau in under two months was probably not great for his long term recovery goals – but time was of the essence.

Laboriously, he changed into his day clothes; an ill fitted shirt; two baggy sweaters, trousers, socks, shoes. He had been getting up every evening since he could manage, getting used to walking and moving again – but his heart still beat fast in his chest. He glanced at the clock. Three minutes. He pulled on his shoes; fumbled with the laces. Then he opened the disused drawer beside his bed, scooping up the hex bag there and shoving it into his pocket.

There was a tap at the door. Two short taps, three long ones. Peter opened it.

“Come on,” said Cezar, “it’s all clear.”

His daemon flew in front of him, checking the corners as Peter followed quietly past blue-washed doors. They paused before a double door and Cezar herded him towards an empty room to their left.

“Wait here,” he said, then slipped through the door. Peter waited, hands cold and heart fast. Down the corridor, he could see the silhouette of receptionist. Then there was a clatter somewhere, and then the sound metal implements clanking. The woman jumped up, and disappeared. Peter looked up and down the corridor, pushing open the doors and hurrying past the reception desk and then – _and then_ : he was out.

The night air enveloped him in a rush, and Peter gasped like a dying man. He swayed on his feet.

Peter could smell petrol fumes; rain on concrete, and to his right, weeds and trees. He could smell the wind; and the cold was sharp against his lips and nose. He inhaled lungfuls of it, the space disorienting after so long inside. His eyes stung, and Peter willed it away, willed his feet to carry him down the steps out of the camera’s line of sight.

He was breathing fast, and he tried to count his own inhales and exhales, trying to steady the rapid fire of his heart. There was a faint buzzing in his ears; even though the rest of the world was more muffled now; the scents less sharp from when he had been a wolf. It was still hard to get used to, and the confusing onslaught of fresh air with their unfamiliar volume of scent left Peter disorientated.

His eyesight was abysmal, he thought, squinting in the darkness. Silhouettes of cars crouched, ominous.

Peter felt a wave of relief when Cezar appeared moments later, flying from around the building like a shadow to land on Peter’s outstretched arm. He gave Peter a quick rub on the jaw with his feathery head.

“I still think we should have killed her,” said the Raven, “She’ll talk, you know. The magisterium will never stop looking for us.”

Peter hummed in agreement, letting Cezar lead him through the trees and to the opposite road; carefully keeping to all the shadows. He already felt a little out of breath, but the adrenaline was in his blood. Everything was in hyper-focus; the pain secondary.

“We’re in no state to get away with murder, my dear,” said Peter, “Must retreat first. _Before_ she talked.”

Cezar made a strange, full-throated vibration in his chest.

“We kill her later,” his daemon said. “Take a left here.”

“We kill her later,” agreed Peter.

Soon, they left the hospital out of sight completely.

Peter Hale was free at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit is happening!!! I can't wait to write proper Peter & Stiles interaction omg and Derek / the Hales are coming (finally). Need me some H/C. Is this moving too slow? I hope you guys are still enjoying ; A ; please let me know your thoughts or any feels if you have time! 
> 
> Fun fox fact: arctic foxes are different to red foxes and other fox species in that they're very hands on parents and pretty protective. Both fox mom and dad look after beebs, as well as a sibling from the previous litter who will stay and help! Baby foxes often visit their parents even when they grow up; and arctic foxes often mate for life (like ravens and wolves!). They hunt by themselves in winter and then meet up with their partner again the next summer to have bebes. :3


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